THE  BOY  GREW  OLDER 

BY 
HEYWOOD   BROUN 


G.P.Putnam's  Sons 
l^WYork  &  London 

XDje  lUickertocIttr  Press 
1923 


/ 


b 


Copyright,  ioa«, 

by 
Heywood  Broun 


Made  in  the  United  States  of  America 


First  Printing,  October  1922 

Second  Printing,  October  1922 

Third  Printing  November   1922 

Fourth    Printing    December  1922 

Fifth  Printing,  February  1923 

Sixth  Printing,  March  1933 


Made  in  the  United  States  of  America 


DEDICATED 

TO 
HERBERT  BAYARD  SWOPE 


5046 iO 


The  Boy  Grew  Older 

Book  I 


CHAPTER  I 

"YouR  son  was  born  ten  minutes  ago,"  said  the 
voice  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire. 

'Til  be  up,"  replied  Peter  Neale,  "right  away." 

But  it  wasn't  right  away.  First  he  had  to  go 
upstairs  to  the  card  room  and  settle  his  losses. 
Indeed  he  played  one  more  pot  for  when  he  re 
turned  to  the  table  his  deal  had  come  around  again. 
He  felt  that  it  was  not  the  thing  to  quit  just  then. 
The  other  men  might  think  he  had  timed  his  de 
parture  in  order  to  save  the  dollar  ante.  He  dealt 
the  cards  and  picked  up  four  spades  and  a  heart. 
Eventually,  he  paid  five  dollars  to  draw  and  again 
he  had  four  spades  and  a  heart.  Nevertheless,  he 
bet  ten  dollars  but  it  was  no  go.  His  hands  shook 
as  he  dropped  the  two  blue  chips  in  the  centre  of 
the  table.  The  man  with  a  pair  of  jacks  noticed  that 
and  called.  Peter  threw  his  cards  away. 

"I've  got  nothing — a  busted  flush.  I  want  to 
cash  in  now.  I  owe  for  two  stacks.  That's  right, 
isn't  it?  I  haven't  any  chips  left.  If  somebody'll 

3 


4  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

lend  me  a  fountain  pen  I'll  make  out  a  check.  I 
guess  I  need  a  check  too.  Any  kind'll  do.  I  can  cross 
the  name  off." 

"Why  are  you  quitting  so  soon?"  asked  the 
banker  as  Peter  waved  the  check  back  and  forth 
to  let  it  dry.  "We're  all  going  to  quit  at  seven 
o'clock." 

"Two  rounds  and  a  consolation  pot,"  corrected 
somebody  across  the  table. 

Peter  was  curiously  torn  between  reticence  and  an 
impulse  to  tell.  He  felt  a  little  as  if  he  might  be 
gin  to  cry.  When  he  spoke  his  voice  was  thick. 
"I've  got  to  go  up  to  see  my  son,"  he  said.  "He's 
just  been  born." 

He  shoved  the  check  over  to  the  banker  and  was 
out  of  the  room  before  anybody  could  say  anything. 

He  thought  that  the  banker  said,  "Congratula 
tions,"  as  he  slammed  the  door  behind  him,  but  he 
could  not  be  certain  of  it. 

All  the  way  up  in  the  taxi  he  worried.  The 
hospital  was  half  a  mile  away.  He  wished  that 
the  nurse  had  said,  "A  fine  boy,"  but  he  remembered 
it  was  just,  "Your  son  was  born  ten  minutes  ago." 

"If  anything  had  been  wrong,"  he  thought,  "she 
wouldn't  have  said  it  over  the  telephone." 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  5 

"Is  everything  all  right  ?"  was  his  first  question 
when  a  nurse  came  to  the  door  of  the  small  private 
hospital  and  let  him  in.  "My  name's  Peter  Neale," 
he  explained.  "My  son's  just  been  born  half  an 
hour  ago." 

"Everything's  fine,  Mr.  Neale,"  she  said  and  she 
smiled.  "The  baby  weighs  nine  pounds.  Mrs. 
Neale  is  fine  too.  You  can  see  them  both,  but  she's 
asleep  now.  You  can't  really  see  her  today,  but  I 
think  they'll  let  you  have  a  good  look  at  your  son. 
He's  a  little  darling." 

Peter  was  reassured  but  irritated.  Formula  was 
all  over  the  remark,  "He's  a  little  darling."  He 
thought  she  ought  not  to  use  it  until  she  had  learned 
to  do  it  better.  Some  place  or  other  he  had  read  that 
babies  were  fearfully  homely.  Still  it  didn't  look 
so  bad  when  he  came  into  the  room.  Black  was 
smudged  all  around  the  eyes  which  gave  the  child 
a  rakish  look. 

"Miss  Haine,"  said  the  nurse  who  brought  him 
in,  "this  is  Mr.  Neale." 

"Mr.  Neale,"  she  added,  "meet  your  son."    Then 
she  went  out. 

"Is  he  all  right,  Miss  Haine?"  was  Peter's  first 
question  as  soon  as  the  door  closed.    After  all,  the 


6  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

other  woman  was  just  supposed  to  answer  the  bell. 
Miss  Haine  might  know  more  about  it. 

"He's  a  cherub,"  said  Miss  Haine. 

"How  did  his  eyes  get  blacked?"  Peter  wanted  to 
know. 

"Oh  that's  just  the  silver  nitrate.  We  always 
put  that  on  a  baby's  eyes  to  make  sure — Look  what 
a  fine  head  he  has." 

Peter  bent  closer.  The  baby  was  not  nearly  so 
red  as  he  had  expected.  As  for  the  head  he  didn't 
see  why  it  was  fine.  He  had  no  notion  of  just  what 
made  a  head  fine  anyway.  The  child  kept  wrinkling 
up  its  face,  but  it  was  not  crying.  There  was  no 
thing  about  his  son  to  which  Peter  could  take  specific 
exception,  but  somehow  he  was  disappointed.  When 
he  had  said  down  at  the  New  York  Newspaper 
Club,  "I've  got  to  go  up  and  see  my  son,"  the  phrase 
"my  son"  had  thrilled  him.  But  this  wasn't  "my 
son."  It  was  just  a  small  baby.  It  seemed  to  him 
as  distant  as  a  second  cousin. 

"He  is  sweet,"  remarked  Miss  Haine. 

"Yes,"  said  Peter,  but  he  felt  that  any  extension 
of  the  discussion  would  merely  promote  hypocrisy 
on  both  sides.  "Can  I  see  my  wife?"  he  asked. 

"Come  this  way,"  said  Miss  Haine.    "You  can 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  7 

only  stay  a  second.  I'm  pretty  sure  she's  asleep." 
Maria  was  asleep  and  snoring  hard.  Miss  Haine 
took  up  one  arm  which  was  flung  outside  the  cover 
and  found  the  pulse  of  the  sleeping  girl  and  as  she 
felt  it  she  smiled  reassuringly.  "Yes,"  she  said, 
"she's  doing  fine." 

"And  now,"  she  added,  "I'm  going  to  bundle 
you  off.  There  really  isn't  anything  around  here 
for  a  father  to  do.  This  isn't  your  job,  you  know. 
I'm  going  to  let  you  come  back  in  the  morning,  but 
not  before  ten." 

Peter   learned   later   that   one   of   the   strongest 
factors    in    Maria's    resentment    against   having   a 
baby  was  that  he  was  implicated  in  the  affair  so 
slightly.    He  tried  to  tell  her  that  she  ought  to  blame 
biology  and  not  him,  but  she  said  there  was  no 
thing  in  the  scheme  of  creation  which  arranged  that 
fathers  should  be  playing  cards  when  their  sons 
were  born.     It  had  an  air  of  reckless  indifference 
about  it  which  maddened  her.     Peter  knew  that  he 
could  not  explain  to  her  that  he  had  not  been  free 
in  spirit  during  the  afternoon.     He  simply  could 
not  bear  to  stay  out  of  a  single  pot.     Hour  after 
hour  he  kept  coming  in  on  middle  straights  and 
three  flushes.     Never  before  had  he  done  anything 


8  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

like  that.  But  she  knew  so  little  about  poker  that 
there  was  no  use  in  telling  her  any  of  this.  Indeed 
he  realized  tfiat  he  had  made  a  mistake  in  venturing 
his  one  answer.  Maria  was  in  nowise  pacified  when 
he  said,  "But  I  lost  fifty  dollars." 


CHAPTER  II 

PETER  saw  Maria  only  once  after  that  and  then 
for  a  few  minutes.  Most  of  the  time  she  wept. 
"She's  getting  along  splendidly,"  said  Dr.  Clay. 
"Her  nervous  condition  isn't  good,"  he  added  as  art 
afterthought.  "Somehow  or  other  she  doesn't  take 
much  interest  in  the  baby.  You  would  almost  think 
she  didn't  like  it.  She'll  get  over  that.  The  mater 
nal  urge  is  bound  to  have  its  effect  in  time." 

Of  course  Peter  could  not  know  that  this  urge,  of 
which  the  bearded  doctor  spoke  so  confidently,  might 
be  tardy.  That  was  something  which  he  was  to 
learn  later  for  two  days  after  the  baby  was  born 
he  went  to  Goldfield  for  the  big  fight.  He  had 
made  the  stipulation  with  the  managing  editor  that 
somebody  else  should  cover  the  story  in  case  his 
son  was  not  yet  born.  The  consent  had  been  some 
what  grudging  and  so  he  had  no  inclination  to  call 
for  another  respite  now  that  the  baby  had  actually 
arrived.  It  would  have  embarrassed  him  to  say  to 
the  managing  editor,  "I  don't  want  to  go  away  now 

9 


io  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

because  Maria — that's  my  wife — doesn't  like  the 
baby."  Anyhow  Dr.  Clay  had  said  she  was  getting 
along  splendidly  except  for  her  nerves  and  the 
maternal  urge  would  attend  to  that. 

And  so  Peter  went  to  Goldfield  and  when  he 
came  back  two  weeks  later  they  told  him  at  the 
hospital  that  Maria  had  gone  leaving  the  baby  be 
hind  her.  They  were  slightly  apologetic.  Miss 
Haine  had  been  a  little  careless.  Twelve  days  after 
Peter  started  for  the  fight  Maria  had  dressed  and 
walked  out.  Nobody  around  the  hospital  knew  any 
thing  more  than  that  about  it.  She  had  left  a  note 
and  Dr.  Clay  had  taken  the  extreme  liberty  of  read 
ing  it.  Medically  speaking,  he  could  not  say  that  it 
indicated  anything  more  than  a  highly  neurotic 
condition.  The  woman  was  rational.  He  could  not 
see  his  way  clear  to  sending  out  a  general  alarm. 
After  all  he  did  not  suppose  that  there  was  any  legal 
way  of  making  the  young  woman  come  back.  She 
said  she  was  going  to  sail  for  Paris  and  he  supposed 
she  had.  Dr.  Clay  offered  sympathy  and  some 
observations  gleaned  in  twenty  years  of  practice 
about  the  Latin  temperament. 

Peter  said  nothing  in  reply.  He  did  not  want  to 
discuss  it.  He  felt  lost  and  gone  but  not  altogether 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  " 

startled.  Now  that  it  had  happened  he  realized  that 
he  should  have  known  that  Maria  might  do  some 
thing  just  like  that.  It  was  an  altogether  silly 
arrangement  that  she  should  have  had  a  baby. 

'The  youngster's  fine,"  said  Dr.  Clay.  "It  must 
be  a  comfort  to  you  to  know  that  you've  still  got 
him.  I  believe  he's  having  his  bath  now.  Wouldn't 
you  like  to  come  up  and  see  him.  It's  quite  an 
exciting  event  I  can  assure  you." 

Peter  didn't  want  to  be  excited  and  it  didn't 
appeal  to  him  as  a  sporting  event  anyhow.  Would 
Dr.  Clay  allow  him  to  lie  down  on  his  couch  for  a 
little  while.  Later  he'd  come  up  and  talk  about  what 
to  do  with  the  baby.  He  supposed  the  hospital  didn't 
want  it  very  much  longer  anyway.  After  Clay  had 
gone  he  cried  a  little.  That  didn't  necessarily  mean 
much.  Only  the  Thursday  before  he  had  cried  at 
the  ringside  in  Goldfield  when  Battling  Nelson 
knocked  out  Joe  Cans.  Then  it  had  been  partly 
rage  because  thousands  around  him  had  shouted 
"Knock  his  block  off.  Kill  the  nigger."  And  he 
had  seen  someone  very  beautiful  slowly  crumple  up 
before  a  slab-sided,  bristling,  little  man  who  had  no 
quality  of  skill  or  grace.  Nelson  had  just  kept  com 
ing  in  and  in.  He  never  stepped  back.  Often  he 


12  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

took  a  blow  in  the  face  rather  than  bother  to  stop 
for  an  instant  from  swinging  his  own  short  arms 
at  the  brown  belly  in  front  of  him.  The  victory 
had  seemed  altogether  mechanical.  Cans  had  not 
been  knocked  out  so  much  as  clawed  to  pieces  by  a 
threshing  machine.  And  it  was  Cans  Peter  had 
thought  of  two  years  ago  when  he  first  saw  Maria 
Algarez  dance.  She  had  that  same  amazing  sud 
denness  of  movement.  When  he  first  saw  her  she 
was  standing  still  in  the  middle  of  the  huge  stage. 
And  then  everything  about  her  had  come  to  life. 
There  was  never  any  feeling  that  she  was  thinking 
about  what  to  do.  No  roll  call  was  carried  on  in 
her  mind  before  she  kicked  or  leaped,  or  flung  an 
arm  above  her  head.  The  left  jab  of  Joe  Cans  was 
like  that  too. 

Peter  went  to  the  stage  door  and  thought  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  stop  her  and  speak  to  her.  He 
found  that  he  hadn't.  She  came  out  slowly  and 
when  he  stared  at  her  she  looked  straight  at  him 
and  almost  smiled.  He  could  not  be  quite  sure  of 
it  because  that  was  the  very  moment  something 
inside  rapidly  wheeled  him  about  and  sent  him  all 
but  running  out  of  the  alley.  Later  he  was  more 
enterprising.  The  dramatic  critic  at  his  request 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  13 

introduced  him  to  the  press  agent  of  "Adios"  and 
the  press  agent  introduced  him  to  Maria  Algarez. 
She  had  just  finished  her  dance.  Peter  was  stand 
ing  in  the  wings  and  people  were  telling  him  not 

to. 

"Perhaps  Mile.  Algarez  will  take  us  up  to  her 
dressing-room,"  said  the  press  agent. 

"It  is  not  mine,"  said  Maria,  "I  am  not  a  star. 
The  eight  Bandana  Sisters  dress  with  me.  But 
never  mind.  Here  they  come.  It  is  now  their 
turn  on  the  stage.  You  will  have  to  climb  two  flights 
of  stairs,  Mr.  Neale.  You  do  not  mind?  Yes?" 

"I  do,"  said  the  press  agent.  "But  that  scores 
for  you.  You're  the  one  he  wants  to  see." 

And  so  Peter  found  himself  alone  in  one  corner 
of  the  long  dressing-room  of  Maria  Algarez  and 
the  eight  Bandana  Sisters.  All  sorts  of  clothes 
were  scattered  over  the  room.  Maria  sat  down  on 
a  chair  and  stretched  out  her  feet.  There  was  an 
other  chair  nearby  but  somebody's  stockings  were 
on  it.  Peter  stood  up.  Maria  looked  at  him  and 
smiled  with  no  particular  merriment.  She  was 
tired.  Peter  shifted  from  one  foot  to  another 
through  a  long  pause. 

"Are  they  really  sisters?"  he  asked. 


14  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

"Just  two,"  said  Maria.  "Vonnie  is  the  sister  to 
Boots.  The  rest  they  are  all  mixed.  It  could  not 
be  that  there  should  be  eight  such  bad  dancers  in 
the  one  family." 

"I  think  you're  the  greatest  dancer  I  ever  saw." 

Maria  nodded.  "Yes,  I  am  the  great  dancer.  It 
is  smart  for  you  to  know  that.  The  others  they  do 
not  know.  When  Boots  was  sick,  Mr.  Casey — he  is 
our  stage  manager — he  wanted  me  to  go  on  in  her 
place.  He  said  he  would  give  me  $5  a  week  more. 
He  is  stupid  Mr.  Casey.  I  do  not  dance  like  that. 
It  is  not  for  me." 

"We'll  be  miss,  miss,  missed  in  Mississip,"  she 
hummed  and  made  a  face.  "One,  two,  three,  four, 
lie  down  on  the  stomach  and  kick  first  the  right  leg 
and  then  the  left  leg  and  then  kick  both  legs.  That 
was  what  he  wanted  Maria  Algarez  to  do.  How 
is  it  you  know?  It  is  so  smart.  Here  throw  down 
those  stockings  on  the  floor  and  take  the  chair.  I 
want  to  hear  you  say  more  about  why  I  am  so  great 
a  dancer." 

Peter  lifted  the  stockings  as  if  they  had  been 
little  kittens  and  placed  them  on  the  long  shelf  under 
the  electric  lights. 

"I  don't  know  why,"  he  said.    "It  just  seems  so 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  15 

easy  when  you  do  things.    And  the  thing  you  dance 
to;  I  think  that's  the  best  tune  in  the  show." 

Maria  was  merry  now  for  the  first  time.  "Again 
you  are  smart.  It  is  The  Invitation  to  the  Waltz' 
of  Weber.  'Miss,  Miss,  Missed'  is  not  so  good. 
That  is  right.  And  some  time  you  will  tell  about 
me  in  your  newspaper  and  say  that  I  am  a  great 
dancer?" 

"I  can't,"  said  Peter.  "I  don't  write  about  the  the 
atre.  I  only  write  about  sports.  Baseball,  you  know 
and  football  and  prizefights  and  things  like  that." 

"Never  mind,  you  and  I  know,  it  will  be  our 
secret.  We  will  tell  none  of  the  others." 

Up  the  stairs  there  came  a  tramping  and  shouting 
and  all  eight  Bandanas  rushed  into  the  room  approxi 
mately  at  the  same  time. 

"I'm  going,"  said  Peter  jumping  up  hastily. 

"Don't  you  mind  us  Bandanas,"  shouted  Vonnie 
across  the  room.  "We  don't  take  off  anything  for 
half  an  hour." 

"Goodbye,"  said  Peter.     "Excuse  me,  ladies." 

Maria  held  his  hand  for  one  and  two  thirds 
seconds.  "You  must  come  again.  I  want  that  you 
should  tell  me  more  about  our  secret." 

Vonnie   held  the   door  open    for   Peter.      "You 


16  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

come  when  we're  all  here,"  she  said.  "There  isn't 
a  nickle's  worth  of  harm  in  the  lot  of  us.  But  that 
Maria  there  is  a  vamp,  a  baby  Spanish  vamp.  Will 
you  remember  that." 

"I'll  remember/' 

As  Peter  went  down  the  stairs  he  was  trying  to 
see  if  he  could  hum  the  thing  that  Maria  said  was 
"The  Invitation  to  the  Waltz"  by  Weber.  He 
wasn't  good  at  it.  And  besides  it  was  all  mixed  up 
and  racketing  around  in  his  head  with,  "We'll 
be  miss,  miss,  missed  in  Mississip." 

Peter  went  to  the  show  the  next  night  and  after 
that  the  alley.  He  stood  scrunched  up  against  a 
wall  for  a  time  but  he  felt  too  conspicuous.  He 
was  afraid  that  somebody  would  come  up  to  him 
suddenly  and  say,  "What  are  you  hanging  around 
here  for?"  It  didn't  make  much  difference  who 
said  it,  the  door  man,  a  stage  hand,  a  scrub  woman, 
anyone  would  have  sufficient  authority  to  terrify 
him.  His  mind  leaped  beyond  that  and  he  had  a 
vision  of  a  policeman  laying  a  hand  upon  his 
shoulder  and  saying,  "I  arrest  you  on  the  charge 
of  mashing."  After  that  would  come  the  trial  and 
the  sentence.  Peter  moved  out  of  the  alley.  He 
had  no  notion  of  just  what  were  the  fixed  post  rights 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  17 

of  anybody  waiting  at  a  stage  door  to  see  an  actress. 
Walking  seemed  safer  and  he  took  up  a  beat 
along  the  side  street  which  ran  at  right  angles  to 
the  alley. 

His  pace  was  brisk  and  he  succeeded  pretty  well 
in  developing  the  air  of  a  man  bent  upon  getting  to 
some  important  engagement  five  or  six  miles  away. 
Of  course,  every  time  he  passed  the  alley  it  was 
possible  to  sweep  it  with  a  glance  over  his  shoulder. 
Even  a  man  in  a  hurry  has  a  right  to  notice  a  tribu 
tary  of  chorus  girls,  musicians  and  actors  sweeping 
into  his  street.     First  came  the  musicians.     Then 
one  girl.    Then  two  and  presently  the  flood.     Peter 
did  not  dare  to  be  too  detached  any  more.     Fortu 
nately  he  found  the  window  of  a  cigar  store  just 
at  the  corner  where  the  alley  turned  into  the  street. 
By  pretending  an   interest  in  the   special   sale  of 
genuine  imported  English  briar  pipes  Peter  was  able 
to  keep  close  watch  upon  everyone  who  came  from 
the  stage  door  and  at  the  same  time  seem  not  quite 
a  prominent  clubman.     But  one  of  the  pipes,  possi 
bly  the  calabash  cut  to  $2.21,  must  have  commanded 
more  than  fictitious  interest,  for  Peter  was  suddenly 
startled  by  a  clutch  at  his  left  arm.     He  tugged 
away  and  turned  at  the  same  moment. 


i8  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

"Unhand  me,  woman,"  said  Vonnie,  but  she 
immediately  took  his  arm  again.  "I  knew  you'd 
come,"  she  said.  "It  was  that  look  you  threw  at 
me  over  your  shoulder  when  you  went  out 
yesterday." 

"I  haven't  come,"  said  Peter.  "I  just  happened 
to  be  going  by." 

"But  you  are  glad  to  see  me?" 

"Of  course  I  am." 

"And  you'll  walk  home  with  me  to  keep  me  from 
being  unprotected  on  the  streets  of  a  great  city  at 
night.  It's  only  about  twelve  blocks.  You  don't 
need  to  take  a  taxi." 

"Honest,  I  can't.  I  wish  I  could.  I'm  awful 
sorry." 

Vonnie  began  to  laugh.  "I  wonder  why  it  is 
that  when  they  come  big  they  haven't  got  any  sense. 
'I  knew  I  could  rule  you  the  day  we  were  wed,'  she 
hummed,  'for  thick  in  the  middle  is  thick  in  the 
head.'  " 

"What  did  I  do  that  was  stupid?  And  I'm  not 
thick  in  the  middle." 

"Well,  that's  a  fact.  I  don't  know  your  name  but 
your  figure  is  grand.  I  guess  you  find  being  so 
handsome  you  don't  need  any  sense." 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  19 

"I  have  so  too  got  sense.     What  have  I  done?" 

"Well,  you're  just  so  serious  I  can't  go  on  kidding 
you.  Don't  you  suppose  I  knew  you  were  waiting 
for  Maria  ?  And  I  know  a  lot  more  than  that.  You 
keep  looking  at  that  girl  the  way  you  did  yesterday 
afternoon  and  all  of  a  sudden  you'll  find  rice  in 
your  ears." 

"All  right,"  said  Peter,  "I  guess  I  can  stand 
that." 

"Here  comes  the  bride — watch  your  step,"  and 
Vonnie  went  up  the  street  as  Maria  came  around 
the  corner. 

"Hello,"  said  Maria,  "what  was  it  you  talked 
about  to  Vonnie?" 

"She  thinks  we're  going  to  get  married." 

"And  what  is  it  you  think?" 

"I'd  like  it." 

"Because  I  am  the  great  dancer  you  think  I  ought 
to  be  the  wife.  So?  It  is  funny.  But  it  is  not  so 
funny.  We  can  talk  about  it  again.  Now  I  am  so 
tired  that  I  just  want  to  hear  you  say  one  thing  and 
that  is  about  the  dancing  and  me." 

"I  think  you  were  just  fine,"  said  Peter. 


CHAPTER  III 


MARIA  was  right.  They  did  talk  about  it  again 
and  largely  because  Peter  surprised  himself  and 
her  with  enterprise.  It  was  raining  hard  that  night 
when  she  came  out  into  the  alley.  Peter  grown  bold 
was  standing  not  more  than  two  feet  away  from  the 
stage  door  at  a  spot  where  a  projecting  fire  escape 
offered  some  shelter  from  the  rain.  A  big  puddle 
lay  all  the  way  across  the  alley. 

"Here,"  said  Peter,  almost  casually  and  he  picked 
Maria  up  and  carried  her  across. 

"Thank  God,  there's  no  winding  staircase," 
Vonnie  shouted  after  them. 

Still  it  was  an  entirely  natural  and  easy  thing  to 
keep  one  arm  around  Maria  when  they  got  into  the 
taxicab.  She  rested  her  head  against  his  shoulder. 
Peter  realized  then  that  he  ought  to  kiss  her.  After 
all  he  had  known  her  three  weeks.  It  seemed  the 
conventional  thing  to  do.  Besides  he  wanted  to. 
She  said  nothing  until  the  second  time. 

20 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  21 

"I  like  the  quiet  ones  better,  Peter,  my  hermit. 
It  is  nice  to  lean  against  you.  With  you  the  taxi 
does  not  jounce  so  much.  Part  of  my  tiredness  it 
goes  into  your  arm." 

"Won't  you  marry  me?"  asked  Peter. 

"Because  we  have  kissed?  And  I  have  put  my 
head  on  your  shoulder?  You  would  make  me  the 
honest  woman?" 

"I  want  to  marry  you." 

"First  we  must  have  some  supper.  Maybe  it  is 
that  you  are  just  hungry.  It  is  not  upon  an  empty 
stomach  to  talk  about  getting  married." 

Maria  would  not  take  the  table  which  the  head- 
waiter  offered.  "No  that  other.  The  little  one  in 
the  corner." 

After  they  had  ordered  Maria  took  up  a  long 
bread  stick  and  began  breaking  it  into  little  pieces 
in  her  hand. 

"Peter,"  she  said,  "I  must  make  you  very  sad. 
Maybe  I  will  be  a  little  sad.  You  do  not  think  I 
am  good?" 

Peter  stared  at  her. 

"That  is  too  bad.  I  am  not  good,  not  very  good. 
You  know  what  I  mean.  You  have  heard  the 
actress  in  the  play  say,  'I  am  a  good  woman  ?'  Maria 


22  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

is  riot.  I  do  not  know  why  I  tell  you  but  I  will. 
First  it  was  three  years  ago  in  Paris.  He  was 
married  and  I  knew  that.  I  do  not  even  like  him 
much  but  I  go.  It  was  wrong.  It  was  not  so  wrong 
another  time  because  that  boy  I  like  a  little.  Now  it 
was  Mr.  Casey,  our  manager,  I  told  you  he  was  a 
fool.  That  I  could  not  help.  He  is  such  a  fool.  I  try 
to  get  the  job  and  he  does  not  say  you  can  dance.  He 
say  to  me,  'I  am  a  nice  man  and  you  are  a  nice  girl/ 
What  is  there  for  me  to  say  except  'yes.'  About 
the  dance  he  does  not  know  anything.  What  is  the 
use  for  me  to  say,  'No,  I  am  not  the  nice  girl,  I 
am  the  great  dancer/  Even  if  he  would  watch  me 
dance  he  would  not  know.  And  so  for  the  week 
end  at  Long  Beach  I  was  the  nice  girl.  I  cannot 
help  it  that  people  are  fools.  It  does  not  make  me 
sad,  but  I  am  sad  because  now  you  are  unhappy." 

But  Peter  was  not  exactly  unhappy.  He  knew 
that  by  all  the  rules  he  should  be  broken-hearted  or 
raging.  He  wondered  why  he  had  no  impulse  to; 
shoot  Casey.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  could  think 
of  nothing  more  silly.  His  mind  kept  turning 
back  to  a  play  he  had  seen  once  called  "The  Second 
Mrs.  Tanqueray."  In  that  the  heroine  had  con 
fessed  in  the  first  act  to  the  man  she  was  going  to 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  23 

marry.  It  was  thrilling  Peter  found  to  have  some 
body  confessing  to  him.  Maria  the  dancer  was  ro 
mantic,  but  Maria  the  adventuress  was  a  whole  leap 
beyond  that  into  the  realm  of  fantasy.  He  stole  a 
glance  around  the  long  room  and  everywhere  he  saw 
men  and  women  talking.  Some  were  laughing  and 
some  were  earnest.  "But,"  he  thought  to  himself, 
"probably  this  is  the  only  table  in  the  room  where 
anybody  is  making  a  confession.'* 

And  besides  all  the  dramatic  values  of  the  situa 
tion,  he  was  not  quite  unconscious  of  the  comic  ones. 
There  sat  Maria,  at  least  five  feet  high  and  looking 
about  ten  years  old,  gravely  lifting  up  one  corner 
of  life  a  little  gingerly  to  spare  the  feelings  of  Peter 
Neale,  the  best  known  sporting  writer  in  America. 
But  every  other  impression  was  swept  away  by  the 
sudden  feeling  that  it  was  extraordinarily  honest 
for  Maria  to  tell  him  all  this.  It  was  more  than 
that.  It  was  like  cheering  when  the  Yale  captain 
got  up  again.  It  was  sportsmanship. 

Peter  reached  across  the  table  and  patted  her 
hand.  "I'm  not  sad,  Maria.  I  think  it  was  awfully 
white  of  you  to  tell  me.  I'm  not  exactly  a  good  man 
myself.  Anyhow  things  are  different  with  you. 
Those  things  you  said  are  nothing.  You  know  the 


24  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

way  I  feel  is  that  you're  an  artist  and  it's  nobody's 
business  what  you  do.  We  don't  have  to  talk  about 
that  any  more.  There's  something  else.  You  re 
member  what  we  were  saying  in  the  taxicab.  You've 
had  two  pieces  of  bread  now  and  a  glass  of  water. 
Won't  you  marry  me?" 

"Yes,"  said  Maria,  "I'm  going  to  marry  you." 


II 


Peter  was  surprised  the  day  they  went  down  to 
get  the  license  to  discover  that  Maria  was  twenty- 
three.  He  was  only  twenty-six  himself.  Maria  had 
seemed  a  child.  Nineteen  would  have  been  his 
guess. 

"Maybe,"  she  said,  "you  will  not  want  me  because 
I  am  so  old." 

"You  could  be  a  hundred,"  Peter  answered. 

They  were  to  be  married  the  next  day  but  when 
he  met  her  at  the  theatre  in  the  evening  she  told  him 
that  Dolly  Vance  was  ill  and  that  Mr.  Casey  wanted 
her  to  take  over  four  of  the  sick  girl's  numbers. 
"I  have  to  come  to  the  theatre  at  ten  o'clock  and 
rehearse  all  the  day." 

"Then  we'll  get  married  at  nine.    I'm  not  going 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  25 

to  take  a  chance  like  that.  I've  read  about  it  in 
books.  The  whole  house  will  be  cheering  you  and 
then  you'll  ask  for  waivers  on  me.  I  want  to  get 
you  signed  up." 

"Pooh,  for  me  they  will  not  cheer.  These  are  the 
jazz  dances.  They  are  not  for  me.  And  Peter,  oh, 
Peter,  I  must  sing." 

"Can  you  sing?" 

"Yes,  my  hermit,  I  am  almost  so  good  a  singer 
as  a  dancer.  And  I  could  play  the  piano  if  there 
was  any  one  smart  enough  to  know.  You  see  I 
bring  you  the  dowry." 

A  very  bored  Alderman  said  that  they  were  man 
and  wife,  but  there  was  some  excitement  when  they 
came  out  of  the  City  Hall  and  two  newspaper  pho 
tographers  took  their  pictures.  Peter  was  proud  of 
the  fact  that  both  the  camera  men  made  a  point  of 
treating  him  as  a  person  of  a  good  deal  of  import 
ance.  "You  see,"  he  said,  "I'm  somebody  in  my 
business." 

"The  paper  you  work  on  what  is  the  name?" 

"It's  called  the  Bulletin." 

"And  what  is  it  they  pay  you?" 

"Well,  with  my  share  of  the  syndicate  and  all 
that  it  amounts  to  about  $100  a  week." 


26  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

"One  hundred  dollars  a  week!  That  is  funny. 
My  pay  it  is  $50.  I  have  caught  a  millionaire. 
Peter,  why  do  they  pay  you  $100  a  week?" 

"I  don't  know,  Maria " 

"One  hundred  dollars  a  week  to  write  about  the 
baseball  game!  Fifty  dollars  a  week  to  Maria 
Algarez.  My  God,  what  a  country!  I  do  not  like 
that,  Peter.  Still,  it  does  not  matter  so  much. 
Maybe  I  am  glad  that  you  are  rich.  You  can  buy 
me  a  piano  and  I  will  show  you  that  I  know  how  to 
play  Chopin.  You  would  like  that." 

"That'll  be  fine,"  said  Peter. 

"Where  was  it  that  you  learned  so  much  about 
this  baseball  that  they  pay  you  $100  for  the  week?" 

"I  used  to  play  myself  at  Harvard.  At  least  I 
played  one  year.  I  pitched  against  Yale  and  shut 
'em  out.  The  next  year  I  got  fired  because  I 
couldn't  learn  French." 

"But  that  is  so  easy,  the  French.  I  do  not  know 
what  it  is  to  shut  Yale  out." 

"Of  course  it's  easy  for  you.  You  lived  there, 
you  told  me  ever  since  you  were  five.  Any  foreigner 
ought  to  be  able  to  speak  French." 

"But  I  am  not.  I  am  now  the  American,  I  know 
that.  I  am  Mrs.  Peter  Neale." 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  27 

"Oh,"  she  said,  and  made  a  fearful  grimace, 
"that  you  must  never  call  me.  It  must  be  that  I  am 
still  Maria  Algarez.  Mrs.  Peter  Neale  I  do  not 
know.  Maria  Algarez  she  will  not  die.  Oh  no, 
Peter,  you  understand  that?" 

"It's  all  right  with  me,"  said  Peter.  "I'm  just 
going  to  call  you  Maria  any  way." 

"And,  Peter,  I  forgot,  you  have  a  father  and  a 
mother  and  the  relations  for  me  to  meet." 

"Not  a  one.  I've  got  an  uncle  in  Salt  Lake  City. 
That's  a  long  way  off  tf  you  don't  know.  But  how 
about  you?" 

"Maybe,  who  can  tell.  They  are  no  good.  I  do 
not  care.  Perhaps  they  are  dead.  Peter,  you  are  all 
I  have  in  the  world.  That  is  why  you  must  buy  me 
the  grand  piano." 

They  went  straight  from  the  City  Hall  to  the 
theatre  and  Peter  left  her.  He  was  not  to  see  her 
again  until  after  the  performance.  Of  course  he 
went  to  the  show  and  sat  in  the  second  row.  But 
Maria  did  not  see  him  when  she  came  on  to  do  the 
first  of  her  new  numbers.  Or  at  any  rate  she  made 
no  sign  of  recognition.  She  kept  her  eyes  intently 
on  the  conductor's  baton.  And  then  she  began  to 
sing.  Even  Peter  had  an  inkling  of  the  fact  that 


28  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

here  was  a  lovely  voice.  If  he  had  not  been  married 
to  Maria  Algarez  at  nine  o'clock  that  morning  he 
would  still  have  been  caught  up  in  the  excitement 
of  the  theatre.  Almost  everybody  stopped  coughing. 
They  honestly  cheered  and  they  kept  it  up.  Nine 
times  Maria  sang  the  chorus  and  five  times  more 
she  came  out  to  bow.  Her  fourth  song  was  the 
last  number  in  the  play  with  the  exception  of  the 
parade  of  all  the  nations  and  nobody  paid  any  atten 
tion  to  that.  They  just  kept  on  applauding  and 
shouting.  Peter  argued  with  the  stage  door  man. 

"I  have  to  see  Maria  Algarez,"  he  said.  "I  have 
to,  I  tell  you.  I'm  her  husband." 

"Write  your  name  down  on  a  piece  of  paper,  and 
I'll  take  it  up  and  see  what  she  says." 

In  three  or  four  minutes  he  returned.  "Miss 
Algarez  says  you're  to  come  up.  It's  number 
twelve.  Two  flights  up  at  the  head  of  the  stairs." 

Peter  knocked. 

"Come  in,"  said  Maria.  She  had  thrown  the 
blue  and  gold  costume  in  a  corner,  and  slipped  on 
a  kimono. 

"It  was  marvelous,"  said  Peter;  "nobody's  ever 
heard  anything  like  it  in  a  theatre.  They're  still 
cheering  and  applauding  for  you." 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  29 

"For  all  that  applause  I  do  not  give  a  damn," 
answered  Maria  and  snapped  her  fingers.  "As  long 
as  you  like.  That  is  all." 

Peter  kissed  her.  "Maria,  I  was  afraid  I'd  lost 
you."  He  held  her  at  arm's  length  and  the  kimono 
slipped  down  over  one  shoulder.  "Cover  yourself 
up,"  said  Peter  almost  sharply.  Maria  pulled  the 
wrap  back  and  folded  it  closely  around  her.  Peter 
had  never  seen  that  smile  before. 

"A  husband,"  she  said.     "It  is  different." 


CHAPTER  IV 


MARIA  blamed  a  good  many  things  upon  the  insti 
tution  of  marriage  for  which  the  explanation  prob 
ably  lay  elsewhere.  If  Peter  had  been  a  lover 
rather  than  a  husband  he  would  still  have  been 
insensitive  to  Chopin.  In  all  the  range  of  Maria's 
repertoire  he  was  never  able  to  detect  more  than  a 
single  tune.  That  itself  seemed  to  him  an  achieve 
ment  for  the  Fantaisie  Impromptu  had  not  yet  been 
discovered  to  be  actually,  "I'm  Always  Chasing 
Rainbows."  But  as  a  matter  of  fact  Peter  did  not 
really  understand  Maria  Algarez  any  better  than  he 
understood  Chopin.  He  loved  her  throughout  the 
year  of  their  married  life  but  he  was  not  happy. 

"It  is  the  curse  of  the  witch  on  you,"  she  said, 
"or  maybe  it  is  not  the  witch  but  that  America  of 
yours.  There  is  something  in  you,  Peter,  that  will 
not  let  you  be  happy.  You  are  afraid  of  it.  Of 
me  you  are  afraid,  Peter." 

30 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  31 

He  protested  that  this  was  not  so  but  Maria  knew 
better. 

"Love — what  you  call  sex — that  is  one  of  the 
things  which  has  frightened  you  the  most  of  any. 
Somebody  has  put  black  thoughts  into  that  head. 
Yes,  I  tell  you  it  is  so.  A  terrible  thing  has  been 
done  to  you.  Somebody  has  brought  you  up 
carefully." 

But  in  an  instant  she  had  come  across  the 
room  to  him  and  had  a  protecting  arm  about 
him. 

"Now  I  have  made  you  the  more  sad.  You  must 
tell  me  what  it  is." 

"I  can't,  Maria.  I  don't  know  whether  I  know. 
But  anyhow  I  can't." 

"Perhaps  it  is  the  sound  of  it  which  you  fear. 
You  tell  me.  You  must.  Whisper  it." 

Peter  did  whisper.  "You  remember  that  night 
you  told  me you  told  me  about  the  others." 

"You  mean  those  oh  so  few  lovers.  But  that 
'did  not  make  you  sad  then.  You  were  not 
angry." 

"I'm  not  angry  now.  But  I  can't  help  it,  Maria, 
that  I  worry." 

"And  for  what  do  you  worry?" 


32  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

"I  think  that  maybe  those  other  lovers  they  made 
you  happier  than  I  can." 

"So!  That  I  should  have  known.  You  think 
you  are  not  the  so  great  lover.  These  men  they  are 
gone  but  they  are  still  your  rivals.  Perhaps  I  re 
member.  That  is  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  Peter. 

He  was  startled  when  Maria  laughed. 

"Why  do  you  laugh  at  me?" 

"It  is  to  you  like  the  baseball  game.  It  is  what 
you  call  it?  Oh  yes,  a  competition." 

Peter  made  no  answer. 

"Now  listen  to  me,  Peter.  You  I  love  the  most  of 
anybody  in  the  world.  I  tell  you  that  but  it  is  not 
enough.  You  still  worry.  Something  I  must  do 
to  show  you.  This  blackness  I  must  drive  away. 
Peter,  you  must  have  a  baby.  Yes,  it  is  a  son  you 
need.  Then  you  can  worry  about  him." 

Maria  spoke  upon  the  conviction  but  also  upon 
impulse  and  babies  are  not  born  that  way.  The 
time  of  her  trial  beat  fiercely  upon  her.  She  had  to 
quit  the  show  just  a  day  after  a  new  role  and 
several  new  songs  were  promised  to  her.  During 
the  last  three  months  of  her  pregnancy  she  never 
left  the  apartment.  "I  do  not  want  anybody  to 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  33 

point  at  me,"  she  told  Peter,  "and  say  that  is  Maria 
Algarez  who  did  the  Butterfly  Dance  in  'Adios.'  " 

In  the  note  which  Dr.  Clay  handed  to  Peter, 
Maria  had  written :  "I  did  keep  my  promise.  It  is 
a  baby  and  a  son.  That  was  all  I  promised.  More 
I  cannot  do.  Peter,  I  must  be  Maria  Algarez,  the 
dancer.  I  cannot  be  the  wife  and  the  mother.  You 
should  not  be  sad  altogether.  I  think  it  is  good 
that  we  have  met.  When  you  look. at  your  son  you 
will  forget  some  of  the  rubbish  that  was  in  your 
head.  That  is  more  than  that  you  should  remember 
Maria  Algarez.  And  the  boy,  Peter,  remember  it 
is  fair  that  from  life  he  should  get  fun.  Thank 
God,  nobody  can  ever  make  of  him  the  wife  and 
mother.  Miss  Haine  says  he  is  like  me.  If  that  is 
so,  Peter,  you  may  have  much  trouble.  But  leave 
him  just  a  little  bad." 

The  last  sentence  was  hard  to  decipher.  Peter 
could  not  make  out  whether  Maria  had  written,  "I 
love  you,"  or  "I  loved  you." 

ii 

Peter  must  have  gone  to  sleep  eventually  on  the 
sofa  in  the  reception  room  of  Dr.  Clay's  hospital. 


34  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

It  was  almost  dark  when  he  woke.  He  had  been 
dreaming  hard.  In  the  dream  some  vague  figure, 
forgotten  by  the  time  he  awoke,  presented  him  with 
a  small  lion  cub  as  a  pet.  Throughout  the  dream 
Peter  worried  about  the  lion  cub.  The  apartment 
house  in  which  he  lived  had  a  strict  rule  against 
dogs.  The  janitor  did  not  actually  come  into  the 
dream,  but  much  of  Peter's  sleeping  consciousness 
was  concerned  with  planning  arguments  for  that 
official.  "But  it  isn't  a  dog,"  Peter  was  prepared 
to  say,  "it's  a  lion.  Your  rules  don't  say  anything 
about  lions.  Anyhow  it's  only  a  little  lion."  There 
had  been  a  lion  cub  in  Battling  Nelson's  camp  and 
Peter  had  often  watched  the  fighter  fool  around 
with  it  and  slap  the  animal  when  it  tried  to  nip 
him.  Nelson  had  a  trick  of  rubbing  the  rough 
stubble  of  his  beard  against  the  lion's  nose.  Peter 
hated  that. 

Disentangling  himself  from  his  dream  he  decided 
that  his  nightmare  had  been  an  echo  he  remembered 
from  Goldfield.  It  took  him  several  minutes  to  get 
himself  back  from  the  Nevada  fight  to  the  hospital 
in  New  York.  While  he  slept  he  had  forgotten  that 
Maria  had  run  away  and  that  his  son  was  in  a  room 
upstairs.  He  was  about  to  skirmish  out  in  search 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  35 

of  one  of  the  nurses  when  Dr.  Clay  came  into  the 
room. 

"Feeling  any  better?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"I  feel  all  right.     I'm  all  ready  to  take  the  baby 


now." 


"You  don't  need  to  be  in  any  hurry  about  that, 
Mr.  Neale.  Better  let  him  stay  till  tomorrow.  It's 
after  six  now.  Suppose  we  go  up  and  watch  the 
little  fellow  get  bathed.  I  asked  Miss  Haine  to 
postpone  that  so  you  could  see  him." 

Peter  realized  that  his  presence  at  the  bath  seemed 
to  be  obligatory  in  the  mind  of  the  doctor.  He 
went  up  the  stairs  to  the  same  room  which  he  had 
visited  the  fortnight  before  when  he  rushed  away 
from  the  poker  game.  There  could  be  no  possible 
question  about  finding  the  right  door  for  the  hall 
was  filled  with  loud  howling. 

"They  never  like  it,"  said  Dr.  Clay. 

"Is  there  any  other  reason  for  doing  it?"  asked 
Peter,  but  the  physician  made  no  answer. 

The  baby  was  propped  up  against  one  end  of 
the  tub  rubbing  at  his  eyes  and  Miss  Haine  was 
sloshing  his  chest  with  water  from  a  sponge. 

She  looked  up  and  said,  "He's  just  fine,  Mr. 
Neale.  I'm  not  really  hurting  him." 


36  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

Peter  found  that  a  dim  shadow  of  personality  had 
descended  upon  his  son  in  the  two  weeks  since  he 
had  last  seen  him.  The  face  was  too  crowded  with 
tears  and  fingers  to  make  much  of  an  impression, 
but  Peter,  making  room  for  the  doctor,  walked 
around  behind  the  tub  and  from  the  shoulders  of 
the  child  he  received  his  first  thrill.  They  were 
square  high  shoulders  without  the  suggestion  of  a 
curve.  Christy  Mathewson,  the  rookie  pitcher  of 
the  Giants,  whom  Peter  Neale  had  recently  hailed  in 
his  column  as  a  coming  baseball  star  had  shoulders 
just  like  that.  And  it  was  a  fine  assertive  chest. 

"He'll  be  a  big  man  some  day,"  said  Miss  Haine 
lifting  up  one  of  the  baby's  feet.  "Remember  he's 
got  to  grow  up  to  these." 

But  no  sooner  was  his  foot  lifted  than  the  child 
began  to  howl  louder  than  ever.  Peter  suddenly 
reached  toward  him. 

"Look  out,"  cried  Miss  Haine  in  alarm.  "You 
mustn't  touch  his  head." 

Peter  cared  nothing  about  the  head.  It  was  the 
high  boxed  shoulders  which  he  wanted,  for  some 
reason,  to  touch.  He  patted  the  child  twice.  "I 
wouldn't  cry  like  that,"  he  said.  But  the  child 
continued. 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  37 

"He  thinks  I  put  soap  in  his  eyes,"  explained 
Miss  Haine.  "Tell  him  I  didn't." 

Peter  thought  it  would  be  silly  to  say  anything 
like  that  to  the  baby.  He  patted  him  twice  more 
and  said,  "There,  there." 

"You're  going  to  have  your  bottle  in  just  a  minute 
now,"  cooed  Miss  Haine,  drying  the  child  with  a 
vigor  which  it  resented.  She  put  him  back  into  his 
crib  and  presented  the  bottle. 

Instantly  he  ceased  crying  and  drank  noisily.  He 
drank  a  good  deal  more  than  he  could  conveniently 
swallow  and  milk  began  to  spill  out  at  the  corners 
of  his  mouth.  The  flash  of  interest  which  had 
animated  Peter  died  away.  Indeed  his  feeling 
slumped  down  through  indifference  to  dislike. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Miss  Haine,  "you're  going  to 
keep  him  on  cow's  milk  from  now  on." 

"Cow's  milk?"  said  Peter.  "That's  what  he's 
got  in  the  bottle  now,  isn't  it?  It's  all  right  for 
him,  I  suppose?" 

"In  theory,"  said  Dr.  Clay,  "bottle  babies  don't 
do  quite  so  well,  but  it  doesn't  make  much  differ 
ence.  I  imagine  more  than  half  the  children  in 
New  York  today  are  brought  up  on  bottles." 

"By  the  way,"  he  continued,  "I  don't  want  to 


38  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

pry  into  your  affairs,  Mr.  Neale,  but  I  suppose  the 
little  fellow's  got  a  grandmother  or  somebody  you 
can  turn  him  over  to." 

"No,"  said  Peter,  "he  hasn't  got  any  grand 
mother  that  I  know  of.  I  guess  we'll  just  have  to 
get  along  without  one." 

"I  can  give  you  the  telephone  number  of  an 
agency  where  you  could  get  a  trained  nurse  for  him. 
That  would  insure  expert  care  for  a  month  or  so 
while  you're  looking  around  trying  to  make  some 
more  permanent  arrangement." 

Peter  shook  his  head.  He  had  come  to  hate  the 
hospital.  Any  starched  person  would  remind  him 
constantly  of  Maria  and  her  letter  and  her  running 
away. 

"I  think  I've  got  somebody,"  he  said.  He  was 
thinking  of  Kate.  She  had  been  part  of  his  life 
before  he  met  Maria.  And  then  there  couldn't  be 
any  scandal  concerning  Kate.  She  was  about  sixty. 
Before  the  baby  was  born  Kate  had  discussed  the 
possibility  of  his  paying  her  more  than  she  got  for 
part  time  housekeeping  and  letting  her  be  a  nurse 
for  the  child. 

"Well,  whoever  you  get,"  advised  Dr.  Clay,  "I 
want  you  to  buy  this  book.  I'll  write  it  down  for 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  39 

you — it's  Dr.  Kerley's,  I've  always  found  it  the  best 
— and  have  her  follow  the  directions  carefully." 

Peter  put  the  slip  in  his  pocket.  "I'll  come  around 
for  the  baby  at  ten,"  he  said.  He  took  one  more 
glance  at  the  crib,  but  the  milk  guzzling  still  con 
tinued.  He  left  without  saying  goodbye  to  anybody 
except  Miss  Haine  and  Dr.  Clay.  As  he  went  out 
the  front  door  he  suddenly  said,  "Damn!"  He 
remembered  that  Kate  couldn't  read. 


CHAPTER  V 

ON  the  way  back  to  the  flat  in  West  Sixty-sixth 
Street,  Peter  stopped  at  a  store  and  asked  for  Dr. 
Kerley's  book.  The  clerk  was  sorry  that  it  was  not 
in  stock.  Of  course  he  could  order  it. 

"I  want  something  right  away,"  said  Peter.  They 
rummaged  around  on  a  shelf  marked  miscellaneous 
and  found,  "Your  Child,"  and  "The  Christian 
Nursery."  Neither  seemed  from  its  title  quite  to 
answer  the  needs  of  Peter,  but  since  there  was 
nothing  else  he  took  them  both.  Arriving  at  his 
flat  in  West  Sixty-sixth  Street  three  doors  away 
from  Central  Park,  Peter  found  Kate  on  hand.  He 
had  seen  her  just  for  a  minute  on  his  return  from 
Goldfield  but  not  since  he  had  learned  his  news  at 
the  hospital.  He  did  not  know  whether  or  not  she 
knew. 

"My  wife's  gone  away,"  he  said.  "And  she  won't 
be  back." 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Kate.  Peter  liked  her  for  that. 
Whether  she  was  surprised  or  not  she  made  no  sign. 

40 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  41 

"Now,"  he  continued,  "I've  got  to  bring  the 
baby  back  here  tomorrow.  It's  a  boy.  There  isn't 
anybody  I  know  to  turn  him  over  to.  I  want  you 
to  come  and  live  here  and  be  his  nurse.  I'll  pay 
you  fifteen  dollars  a  week.  You  remember  you 
said  you  would  come  for  ten  when  we  were  talking 
about  it  before.  I'm  going  to  pay  you  more  because 
you'll  have  to  do  the  whole  job  now." 

"I  want  one  night  a  week  off,  Mr.  Neale,"  said 
Kate. 

'That'll  be  all  right  if  you  make  it  Sunday.  I 
guess  I  can  learn  enough  to  take  care  of  him  once  a 
week.  I've  got  a  couple  of  books  here  that  tell 
how  to  do  it.  This  baby's  going  to  be  brought  up 
right,  Kate.  I  want  you  to  read  these  books  too." 

"Mr.  Neale,  I've  broke  my  glasses  and  I  can't  see 
print  at  all  without  them.  I'm  an  old  woman,  Mr. 
Neale." 

"That's  all  right,  Kate,  I'll  read  you  some  of  it  so 
we  can  be  ready  for  this  baby  when  he  comes  to 
morrow.  Don't  stand  up.  Sit  down,  Kate.  This 
is  called  'Your  Child.'  It's  written  by  a  woman 
named  Alice  Carter  Scott." 

Peter  opened  the  book  and  decided  to  skip  the 
preface. 


42  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

"I  had  a  sister  in  Brooklyn  once,"  said  Kate, 
"that  was  married  to  a  man  named  Scott.  She's 
dead  these  ten  years,  God  rest  her  soul." 

"It  says,"  began  Peter,  skimming  over  the  first 
page  and  deciding  that  a  summary  would  be  suffi 
cient,  "that  the  most  important  task  in  the  world 
and  the  greatest  blessing  is  to  bring  up  children." 

"  The  first  years  of  the  child's  life/  "  he  read, 
"  'roughly  speaking  from  birth  to  the  age  of  six, 
constitute  the  most  important  period  of  the  child's 
whole  existence.' ' 

He  skimmed  ahead  again  until  he  found  a  head 
ing,  "Constructive  Suggestions." 

"  'First  of  all/"  he  read,  "  'I  would  say  that  the 
home  cannot  be  a  normal  home  unless  the  mother 
herself  is  a  normal  being ' ' 

Peter  tried  to  skip  ahead  rapidly.  "  'She  must 
learn  to  discriminate  between  the  essentials  and  the 
non-essentials  in  life.  She  must  give  the  best  of 
herself  to  important  things  and  she  must  learn  to 
eliminate  or  subordinate  the  non-important — ' " 
Here  Peter  broke  off  and  put  the  book  down. 

"This  doesn't  seem  to  be  much  good  for  us,"  he 
said.  "It's  all  too  general.  Maybe  we  can  get 
something  more  out  of  this  one.  This  one's  called 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  43 

The  Christian  Nursery.'  That  doesn't  sound  much 
good,  but  we'll  see.  'Functions  of  the  Family — .' 
The  Functions  of  the  family  in  human  life  are 
five-fold:  (i)  biological;  (2)  educational;  (3) 
moral;  (4)  social;  (5)  religious.'' 

He  put  it  down  impatiently.  "These  aren't  what 
I  wanted  at  all.  I'll  have  to  go  and  get  that  Dr. 
Kerley  book  they  told  me  about  in  the  hospital.  I 
can  get  it  in  the  morning." 

"Begging  your  pardon,  Mr.  Neale,"  said  Kate, 
"there's  no  need  for  me  to  have  a  book  about  babies. 
I  raised  five  children  and  buried  four.  I'm  not 
saying,  mind  you,  that  books  aren't  the  great  things 
for  wisdom  but  it's  not  wisdom  that  little  children 
do  be  needing.  The  Blessed  Virgin  herself,  she 
didn't  have  to  read  in  no  books.  I'll  be  bringing 
him  up  like  he  was  my  own  son,  Mr.  Neale,  and 
that's  better  than  you'll  be  finding  in  all  your  fine 
books." 

Peter  was  disposed  to  argue  the  proposition  that 
all  a  woman  needs  to  know  about  motherhood  can 
be  learned  by  having  some  children,  but  Kate  got  up 
and  walked  out  into  the  kitchen  to  show  that  the 
interview  was  over.  Peter  never  did  get  around  to 
buying  Dr.  Kerley  even  for  his  own  education.  Still 


44  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

he  could  not  quite  dismiss  the  little  he  had  read  that 
night.  He  could  not  remember  whether  it  was  in  the 
Christian  book  or  the  other  that  he  had  come  across 
the  paragraph  about  the  mother — "She  must  learn 
to  discriminate  between  the  essentials  and  the  non- 
essentials  in  life."  He  wondered  whether  it  was 
essential  that  Maria  should  devote  herself  to  the 
gurgling  little  child  who  cried  about  everything  but 
spilt  milk,  or  that  she  should  go  on  dancing  to  the 
strains  of  that  tune  by  Weber.  He  tried  to  hum 
it  and  couldn't.  Then  he  sat  and  thought  for  a  long 
time.  In  reply  to  a  question  from  Kate  he  said 
that  he  didn't  want  any  dinner.  He  was  going  out. 
Would  she  please  be  at  the  flat  at  ten  o'clock  as  he 
expected  to  have  the  baby  back  by  that  time. 

Presently  Kate  went  out.  Peter  sat  by  the  win 
dow  and  looked  up  towards  the  park.  He  could 
catch  a  glimpse  of  it  by  leaning  out.  There  was  a 
moon.  A  wind  whipped  through  the  trees  and  they 
were  swaying  back  and  then  rushing  forward  again 
whenever  the  gusts  gave  them  an  opening.  That 
was  a  sort  of  dance.  He  turned  away  from  the 
window.  There  was  nothing  in  the  room  to  remind 
him  of  Maria  except  the  grand  piano.  He  would 
get  rid  of  that.  His  mind  began  to  lose  its  ache. 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  45 

He  could  accept  the  fact  that  Maria  had  gone.  He 
would  remember  her  now  always  as  he  had  seen  her 
that  first  night  standing  still  in  the  centre  of  the 
stage  just  before  she  began  to  dance.  The  sight 
of  Maria  washing  a  baby  would  have  been  queer. 
It  was  all  right  for  nurses  and  old  Irish  women  and 
sporting  writers  to  mess  around  with  babies  and 
soap  and  rubber-tipped  milk  bottles.  Somehow  or 
other  he  was  glad  he  had  never  seen  the  greatest 
dancer  in  all  the  world  with  a  mouth  full  of  safety 
pins. 


CHAPTER  VI 

Miss  HAINE  seemed  somewhat  surprised  when 
Peter  arrived  at  the  hospital  alone  the  next  morning. 
"You're  not  going  to  carry  him  back  yourself?" 
she  said. 

"Why  not?" 

"Have  you  ever  held  a  baby?" 

Peter  thought  back.  "Not  such  a  little  one,"  he 
admitted. 

"Well  then,  watch  me,"  she  said.  "See,  take  him 
like  this.  If  you  don't  he's  sure  to  cry." 

"But  he's  crying  now,"  protested  Peter. 

"That's  for  some  other  reason.  It  isn't  because 
I'm  holding  him  wrong.  All  little  babies  cry  a 
good  deal  at  first.  It's  good  for  them.  Any  time 
a  small  baby  doesn't  cry  a  certain  number  of  hours 
a  day  there's  something  wrong.  You  see  he  isn't 
big  enough  to  walk,  or  crawl,  or  even  roll  around 
much  and  crying  is  the  way  he  gets  his  exercise. 
He's  getting  air  into  his  little  lungs  now." 

46 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  47 

"There  isn't  anything  to  be  done  about  it?"  Peter 
wanted  to  know. 

"Well,  of  course,  you  must  look  first  of  all  to  see 
if  there  is  any  real  reason  for  his  crying.  His  skin 
is  very  sensitive.  There  might  be  a  pin  sticking  in 
him.  It  might  be  that  his  clothes  need  to  be 
changed."  Miss  Haine  paused.  "Yes,  he  wants  to 
be  changed  now." 

Peter  made  a  step  toward  the  door,  "Oh,  you'll 
have  to  learn  this,"  said  Miss  Haine.  "Watch  me." 

At  the  moment  she  seemed  skilful.  For  the  first 
time  Peter  appreciated  the  fact  that  she  really  was 
trained.  But  he  did  not  know  until  after  months  of 
subsequent  experience  just  what  a  marvel  he  was 
permitted  to  observe.  In  the  course  of  a  year  or 
so  he  made  progress.  His  improvement  was 
tangible  enough  to  be  demonstrated  in  figures. 
Neale  was  given  to  statistics.  He  was  the  first 
sporting  writer  to  keep  separate  averages  for  batters 
against  right  and  lefthanded  pitching.  It  was  Peter 
Neale  who  proved  years  later  that  there  were  definite 
exceptions  to  the  accepted  theory  that  lefthanded 
batters  do  badly  against  southpaws.  He  was  able 
to  show  that  through  one  entire  campaign  Ty  Cobb 
batted  11.692  points  better  against  lefthanders  than 


43  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

he  did  against  righthanders.  In  much  the  same 
spirit  Peter  used  a  stop  watch  on  himself  while  he 
was  engaged  in  the  task  of  changing  the  child.  In 
twelve  months  time  he  was  pleased  to  observe  that 
his  record  was  gradually  cut  down  from  nineteen 
minutes  to  five  and  a  half.  Later  he  wished  it  had 
been  his  privilege  to  time  Miss  Haine  at  this  first 
demonstration.  He  was  sportsman  enough  to  admit 
that  in  all  probability  even  his  best  performance 
after  months  of  practice  was  markedly  inferior  to 
hers.  Indeed  he  would  not  have  been  a  bit  surprised 
to  learn  that  she  had  established  a  world's  record 
before  his  very  eyes.  Even  as  a  novice  in  the 
matter  he  knew  that  he  had  seen  a  marvel. 

After  all,  in  spite  of  Peter's  ignorance  of  babies 
he  did  have  a  reportorial  eye.  It  took  him  no  more 
than  a  few  seconds  to  observe  that  Miss  Haine's 
phrase,  "He  wants  to  be  changed,"  was  not  a  par 
ticularly  nice  use  of  English.  There  seemed  to  be 
nothing  in  the  world  which  the  child  wanted  less. 
He  screamed  as  Peter,  at  that  time,  had  never  heard 
him  scream,  and  kicked  prodigiously.  Many  months 
later  when  Peter  had  begun  to  perfect  himself  in 
the  technique  of  the  task  he  felt  that  perhaps  he 
would  not  do  at  all  badly  in  any  competition  limited 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  49 

to  participants  who  were  also  parents.  He  was 
never  able  to  challenge  in  any  way  the  complete 
mastery  of  Miss  Haine  because  she  was  endowed 
with  a  complete  indifference.  She  did  not  allow  the 
screaming  to  interfere  with  her  efficiency  in  any 
way.  The  kicking  never  worried  or  angered  her. 
She  acted  as  if  it  were  a  natural  hazard. 

"There's  a  nice  dry  child  for  you,"  she  said  at 
the  end  of  an  interval  which  Peter  subsequently 
estimated  to  have  been  three  minutes  and  twenty  sec 
onds.  He  was  also  a  silent  child  until  Peter  picked 
him  up. 

'Tut  your  right  hand  a  little  lower  and  raise  your 
left,"  advised  Miss  Haine.  "Remember  he  isn't 
strong  enough  yet  to  hold  up  his  head  all  by 
himself." 

Peter  obeyed  at  the  moment,  but  he  grew  to  have 
a  certain  contempt  for  all  established  canons  of 
good  form  in  regard  to  holding  a  baby.  Indeed  he 
eventually  wrote  an  article  for  one  of  the  magazines 
in  which  he  maintained :  "There  are  one  hundred 
and  fifty-two  distinctly  different  ways  of  holding 
a  baby — and  all  are  right !  At  least  all  will  do."  He 
based  this  contention  on  the  fact  that  the  body  of 
a  small  baby  is  soft  and  pliable  and  that  a  person 


50  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

with  a  strong  pair  of  hands  can  get  a  grip  pretty 
much  any  place  he  chooses.  Still,  for  the  moment 
he  obeyed  instructions  implicitly  and  went  down  the 
stairs  gingerly  and  out  to  the  taxicab. 

"That's  a  fine  husky  kid  you've  got  there,"  said 
the  driver.  "Is  it  yours?" 

"Yes,"  said  Peter  somewhat  ashamed  and  an 
noyed  by  the  fact  that  a  suggestion  of  pride  crept 
into  his  voice  quite  against  his  will.  "It's  my  son." 

"He  certainly  knows  how  to  yell,"  said  the 
driver.  "I've  got  five  but  he  beats  'em  all." 

Curiously  enough  the  child  ceased  crying  the 
instant  the  taxi  started.  The  motion  of  the  journey 
and  possibly  the  sight  of  the  trees  and  the  river  and 
the  ships  seemed  to  have  a  certain  interest  for  it. 
The  mouth  opened  into  something  that  might  have 
been  a  grin. 

"That's  Grant's  Tomb,"  said  Peter  before  he 
realized  that  whatever  interest  in  the  proceedings 
the  child  actually  had  it  could  hardly  be  pinned  down 
to  the  particular.  Climbing  the  two  flights  of  stairs 
which  led  to  his  apartment,  Peter  knocked  at  the 
door  briskly.  Somehow  or  other  the  baby  had 
begun  to  slip  through  his  fingers  and  he  found  it 
impossible  to  reach  the  pocket  in  his  vest  where  he 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  51 

kept  his  keys.  There  was  no  answer.  Peter  knocked 
again  and  still  nobody  came.  Heaving  the  baby  up 
over  his  shoulder  he  found  the  key  after  trying 
three  wrong  pockets  and  went  into  the  flat.  There 
was  no  one  about.  Kate  had  not  arrived.  Peter  was 
alone  with  his  son. 

Panic  descended  upon  him.  He  remembered, 
"His  skin  is  very  sensitive.  A  pin  may  be  sticking 
into  him,"  and  he  wondered  if  in  the  event  of  such 
an  emergency  he  could  possibly  locate  the  trouble. 
He  was  still  more  doubtful  of  his  ability  to  do  any 
thing  else  which  might  be  necessary.  Even  in  the 
taxicab,  Peter  had  not  felt  wholly  alone.  After 
all  the  driver  had  said  that  he  was  the  father  of  five. 
This  was  reassuring  to  Peter.  He  had  a  mind 
which  hopped  ahead.  He  had  been  quite  alive  to 
the  arrival  of  a  contingency  upon  which  he  would 
find  it  necessary  to  tap  upon  the  window  and  say, 
1  'Never  mind  the  car  for  a  minute.  What  should  I 
do  now?" 

Fortunately,  the  conduct  of  the  baby  was  more 
admirable  than  anything  Peter  had  yet  known.  He 
put  it  in  the  middle  of  the  bed  where  it  promptly 
went  to  sleep.  Peter  sat  in  a  chair  close  by  and 
watched.  Suddenly  something  happened  which 


52  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

startled  him.  Without  waking  the  child  rolled  over 
and  buried  its  head  in  the  pillow  face  downward. 
Peter  knew  that  it  would  not  smother.  He  had  slept 
exactly  that  way  himself  for  twenty-five  years. 

There  was  no  clock  in  the  house  and  Peter  had 
no  notion  of  how  long  he  waited.  Presently  the 
child  woke  and  began  to  cry  petulantly.  A  search 
for  pins  was  resented  and  the  wailing  took  on  its 
characteristic  vigor. 

"Don't  do  that,"  said  Peter.  He  picked  the  child 
up,  carried  it  to  the  window  and  back  again  without 
good  results.  Then  he  said,  "Listen!"  Peter 
cleared  his  throat.  "Rockabye,  baby,  on  the  tree 
top,"  he  began  but  to  no  avail.  He  wasn't  very  sure 
of  the  tune.  There  was  only  one  song  of  which  he 
was  confident.  "Oh,  Harvard  was  old  Harvard 
when  Yale  was  but  a  pup,"  struck  up  Peter.  "And 
Harvard  will  be  Harvard  still  when  Yale  is  all 
gone  up,  And  if  any  Eli  son  of  a ." 

Instinctively  Peter  began  to  hum  the  rest.  It 
did  not  seem  to  him  just  the  sort  of  song  he  should 
sing  to  his  baby.  And  yet  it  proved  exactly  right. 
The  child  went  off  to  sleep  again  and  remained  that 
way  while  Peter  disentangled  it.  A  few  minutes  later 
Kate  came  in.  "I  was  thinking,  Mr.  Neale,"  she 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  53 

said,  "that  there  was  no  clothes  for  the  child/'  She 
stepped  across  to  the  bed.  "Oh,  the  little  angel. 
Now  the  deep  sleep  does  be  on  him.  I  found 
some  old  things  and  brought  them.  I  hope  he  was 
no  trouble  to  you." 

"No,"  said  Peter,  mopping  his  forehead.  "He 
wasn't  so  much  trouble.  Have  you  got  everything 
you  need?  I'm  going  to  leave  you  some  money  for 
milk  and  food  and  things.  Can  you  stay  with  him 
right  along  now  till  your  day  off?" 

"I  can  that." 

"Well,  let's  see.  This  is  Tuesday.  I'm  going  out 
for  awhile.  I  won't  be  back  tonight.  Maybe  I 
won't  be  back  tomorrow.  Anyhow  I'll  be  back 
before  Sunday.  Take  good  care  of  him." 

Peter  had  to  steady  himself  going  down  the  stairs 
to  the  street.  He  was  shaky  and  wringing  with 
perspiration.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  pitched  a  nine 
inning  game  with  the  score  nothing  to  nothing  all 
the  way.  He  just  had  to  get  out  of  the  house. 
The  ache  which  had  died  down  the  night  before 
was  back  again.  "I  guess  I've  got  to  get  drunk," 
thought  Peter. 


CHAPTER  VII 

WHEN  Peter  reached  the  corner  he  found  that  it 
was  only  half -past  twelve.  It  was  much  too  early  to 
get  drunk.  Daylight  drinking  had  always  seemed 
to  him  disgusting.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was 
contemplating  the  spree  merely  as  a  means  to  an  end. 
In  order  to  forget  Maria  he  must  think  of  someone 
else  and  it  would  suit  his  purpose  that  the  other 
person  should  be  someone  rowdy  and  degraded.  He 
would  rub  himself  with  mud  to  ease  the  numbness 
of  his  spirit.  He  knew  that  he  could  never  do  it 
without  drinking.  First  many  gates  must  be  un 
locked.  Maria  had  been  right  when  she  said  that 
Peter  was  afraid  of  sex.  When  he  was  quite  a 
small  boy  somebody  had  told  him  about  flowers  and 
it  meant  nothing  to  him.  It  had  seemed  merely  a 
fairy  story  rather  more  dull  than  usual.  Much  later 
a  red-haired  boy  who  lived  five  houses  away  had 
talked  to  Peter  and  frightened  and  disgusted  him. 
After  that  he  had  run  away  when  other  boys  tried  to 
tell  him  anything  about  these  mysteries.  Of  course 

54 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  55 

his  squeamishness  had  been  marked  and  he  became 
the  butt  of  every  youngster  with  any  talent  for  smut. 
Finding  that  flight  was  useless  Peter  adopted  a  new 
system  and  fought  fiercely  with  anyone  who  taunted 
him.    He  was  bigger  and  stronger  than  most  of  the 
other  boys  and  he  soon  piled  up  an  imposing  list  of 
victims  to  his  prowess.     He  fought  so  well  that  his 
ignorance  remained  almost  unimpaired.    Once  when 
he  was  in  the  act  of  belaboring  a  companion  who 
had  tried  to  outline  for  him  the  plot  of  a  book 
called  "Only  A  Boy,"  a  woman  passing  by  had  inter 
rupted  the  fight.    She  wanted  to  know  if  Peter  was 
not  ashamed  of  himself.     Defensively  he  answered 
that  the  other  boy  had  been  "talking  dirty."     Im 
mediately  the  passerby  deluged  Peter  with  admira 
tion.    She  took  down  his  name  and  address  and  later 
he  received  by  mail  a  Bible,  leather  bound,  and  on 
the  flyleaf  was  the  inscription   "To  a  young  Sir 
Galahad."     Peter  never  took  any  particular  pride 
in  this  gift. 

He  knew  in  his  heart  that  his  purity  rested  solidly 
on  fear.  He  burned  with  curiosity.  At  times  he 
actually  invited  lewd  confidences  though  making 
every  pretence  of  anger  when  they  were  imparted  tp 
him.  Respite  came  to  him  for  a  year  or  two  before 


56  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

he  went  to  college  because  athletics  became  his  god. 
He  excelled  all  competitors  in  school  and  was  gener 
ally  rated  the  best  right-handed  pitcher  in  the 
metropolitan  district.  Baseball  filled  all  his  thoughts 
waking  and  sleeping,  and  in  the  autumn  it  was 
football,  although  in  this  branch  of  sport  he  was 
by  no  means  as  proficient.  Indeed  when  he  went 
to  Harvard  at  the  age  of  seventeen  he  was  dropped 
from  the  varsity  squad  in  the  first  cut  and  later 
from  the  freshmen. 

At  this  particular  time,  when  he  was  much  more 
foot-loose  than  usual,  the  annual  medical  lecture  to 
the  Freshmen  was  delivered.  It  was  known  in 
unofficial  circles  as  Smut  One  and  attendance  was 
compulsory.  Very  gravely  and  severely  the  old 
doctor  unfolded  his  tale  of  horrors.  The  spirit  was 
not  unlike  that  of  a  traditional  hell-fire  sermon. 
Peter  heard  the  man  half  through  and  then  fainted, 
toppling  over  from  his  seat  across  an  aisle.  He  was 
carried  downstairs  into  the  fresh  air  and  did  not 
come  back.  But  he  had  heard  enough  to  be  con 
vinced  that  this  sex  business  was  even  worse  than 
it  had  seemed  in  the  crude  and  rowdy  flashes  which 
had  come  to  him  from  his  companions.  And  yet 
the  fact  that  it  was  horrible  by  no  means  served  to 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  57 

keep  his  thoughts  clear  of  the  subject.  The  doctor 
had  talked  entirely  of  the  dangers  and  disgraces  of 
immorality.  Peter  could  not  escape  the  only  par 
tially  conscious  surmise  that  unspeakable  delights  and 
wonders  must  lie  within  this  circle  of  leaping  flames. 
This  impression  was  confirmed  when  he  happened 
in  the  college  library  to  come  across  a  poem  by 
Carew  called  'The  Rapture."  Sex  seemed  to  him 
now  by  far  the  most  romantic  and  adventurous  thing 
in  life.  The  fact  that  there  were  monsters  and 
dragons  to  be  dared  made  it  all  the  more  a  piece 
with  the  un forgotten  tales  of  childhood  concerning 
giant  killers  and  knights-errant. 

Peter  was  no  longer  satisfied  to  be  Galahad.  He 
wanted  to  be  Launcelot.  And  still  he  was  afraid. 
He  found  out  that  Columbus  Avenue  in  Boston  was 
a  street  largely  given  over  to  women  and  night  after 
night  he  used  to  slink  about  dark  corners  hoping  and 
dreading  that  somebody  would  speak  to  him.  When 
ever  a  "Hello  dearie"  came  to  him  out  of  the  dark 
ness  Peter  trembled.  "No,"  he  would  say,  "I'm 
sorry.  I've  got  a  very  important  engagement.  I've 
got  to  go  right  along.  I  must  go  right  along.  Sure, 
I'll  be  here  at  this  same  time  tomorrow  night." 

Often  he  would  carry  on  some  such  dialogue  a 


58  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

dozen  times  in  an  evening  and  then  one  night  a 
woman,  more  stalwart  and  audacious  than  any  he 
had  yet  encountered,  seized  him  by  the  arm. 
"Sonny,"  she  said,  "I'm  not  going  to  let  you  waste 
my  time.  You're  not  going  any  place  except  with  me. 
Now  march  along." 

Peter  marched.  That  was  why  he  told  Maria 
Algarez  that  he  was  not  quite  a  good  man  himself. 

For  a  time  disillusion  supplanted  turmoil  in  the 
mind  of  Peter.  He  found  that  the  romanticists 
were  just  as  fraudulent  as  the  moralists.  Don  Juan 
seemed  to  him  as  great  a  fake  as  Galahad.  Besides 
in  the  spring  the  call  for  baseball  candidates  came 
along  and  Peter  surprised  the  college  world  by 
being  the  only  Freshman  to  win  a  place  on  the 
varsity  nine.  He  pitched  the  second  game  against 
Yale  and  won  by  a  score  of  2  to  o.  Life  meant 
something  after  all.  Bending  a  third  strike  across 
the  knees  of  a  man  with  a  Y  on  his  chest  gave  a 
dignity  to  existence  which  it  had  never  before 
possessed.  Peter  was  done  with  hot  thoughts  and 
cold  ones.  Unfortunately  he  was  also  done  with 
thoughts  about  examinations.  French  was  his  most 
abject  failure,  but  he  did  badly  enough  in  every 
thing  else  to  be  told  that  his  college  days  were  over. 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  59 

Still  he  was  bereft  of  romance  for  no  more  than  a 
month.  He  caught  on  with  the  sporting  department 
of  the  Bulletin  early  in  August  and  made  an  almost 
instantaneous  hit.  Here  again  he  found  satisfaction 
in  the  gait  and  color  of  life.  Women  were  not 
rigorously  excluded  from  the  scheme  of  things, 
but  they  were  not  important.  He  saw  them  in  the 
dance  halls  where  he  went  after  hours  and  talked 
to  them  and  drank  with  them,  but  they  served  merely 
as  minor  characters.  The  talk  which  animated  this 
existence  for  Peter  was  all  of  the  shop.  A  reporter 
from  San  Francisco,  named  Rusk,  suddenly  dis 
covered  to  his  amazement  and  delight  that  here  was 
a  man  eager  to  hear  his  tales  of  newspaper  work 
along  the  waterfront  in  the  days  when  the  coast 
towns  were  still  unregenerate.  Everybody  else  on 
the  Bulletin  was  in  the  habit  of  groaning  loudly 
whenever  Rusk  began,  "In  the  old  days  on  the  water 
front  ,"  but  Peter  listened  with  the  most  intense 

sort  of  interest  to  Rusk's  entire  stock  of  anecdotes. 
By  and  by  Rusk  had  to  make  them  up.  He  gave 
himself  a  boyhood  as  a  jockey  and  also  enlisted 
fictionally  in  the  Spanish  American  war.  Peter 
believed  everything  and  liked  everything.  Four 
months  later  Rusk  left  the  Bulletin  in  order  to 


60  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

try  his  hand  at  free  lancing  for  the  magazines.  His 
failure  in  that  field  surprised  him.  He  had  come  to 
confuse  Peter  Neale  and  the  general  public. 


Peter  began  his  spree  by  going  to  the  Newspaper 
Club.  He  found  no  one  in  the  big  room  except  two 
old  men  playing  chess.  One  of  them  did  weather 
and  the  other  fish  on  the  New  York  Press.  They 
were  not  communicative  and  neither  seemed  disposed 
to  be  drawn  into  conversation.  And  so  for  a  time 
Peter  watched  the  game.  He  found  it  impossible 
to  work  up  any  enthusiasm  about  the  issue  and 
departed  to  practice  pool  on  a  table  at  the  other  end 
of  the  room.  Caring  nothing  about  performance, 
Peter  was  surprised  to  discover  that  the  most  dif 
ficult  shots  all  came  off.  Nothing  was  too  hard. 
Even  the  most  fantastically  complicated  combina 
tions  plopped  the  required  ball  into  a  pocket. 

Far  from  being  pleased  at  this  Peter  grew  angry. 
He  felt  that  Fate  was  ironically  evening  up  things 
for  him  by  burdening  him  with  luck  and  prowess  in 
something  which  made  no  difference  and  withholding 
its  favor  in  all  the  important  aspects  of  life.  Testing 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  61 

out  his  theory  he  picked  up  a  straggler,  a  man  he 
knew  but  slightly,  who  happened  to  wander  into  the 
club  at  that  moment. 

"I'll  roll  you  Indian  dice,"  challenged  Peter.  "A 
dollar  a  throw." 

Good  luck  continued  to  plague  him  although  he 
knew  that  its  attentions  were  not  honorable!  At 
the  end  of  three  quarters  of  an  hour  Peter  was  $85 
ahead. 

"That's  enough,"  he  said  with  irritation. 

"You're  not  going  to  quit  now  that  you've  got 
me  in  the  hole,"  protested  his  opponent.  "Aren't 
you  going  to  give  me  a  chance  to  get  back?" 

"You  wouldn't  have  any  chance.  If  we  keep 
up  I'm  sure  to  win  hundreds  of  dollars  from  you. 
Nobody  can  beat  me  just  now.  Look  here  if  you 
don't  believe  me  I'll  give  you  a  chance.  I'll  bet  you 
a  hundred  dollars  to  ten  on  one  roll." 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Neale  ?"  asked  the 
loser.  "Are  you  soused?" 

"Not  yet,"  said  Peter.  "You're  not  taking  any 
advantage  of  me.  I  tell  you  I  know.  I  can't  lose. 
Go  ahead  and  roll." 

"All  right,  if  you  want  to  throw  money  away 
it's  not  my  fault." 


62  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

He  took  the  leather  cup  and  rolled  a  pair  of  sixes. 
Peter  slammed  the  dice  down  and  four  aces  and  a 
five  danced  out. 

"No  more,"  said  Peter.  "It's  no  use.  That's 
$95  you  owe  me." 

"Would  you  mind  if  I  held  you  up  on  that  till 
next  week?  I'm  sort  of  busted  just  now." 

"No  hurry,  anytime'll  do." 

"Ninety-five,  that's  right,  isn't  it?  Lend  me  $5 
that'll  make  it  an  even  hundred.  Easier  to 
remember." 

Peter  gave  him  the  five.  He  knew  that  even  in 
his  gambling  triumphs  there  would  be  some  catch. 
Wandering  over  to  the  bar  alone  he  had  two  Mar 
tinis  and  then  a  Bronx  but  nothing  seemed  to 
happen.  Looking  at  his  watch  he  found  that  it  was 
still  only  a  little  after  three  and  he  went  up  town  to 
Fourteenth  Street  to  a  burlesque  house.  The  show 
was  called  "Dave  Shean's  Joy  Girls."  When  Peter 
came  in  Shean  as  a  German  comedian  with  a  false 
stomach  and  a  red  wig  had  just  volunteered  to  take 
the  place  of  the  bullfighter  played  by  the  straight 
man. 

"Do  you  think  you  can  kill  the  bull?"  asked  the 
straight  man. 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  63 

"I  don't  know  dot  I  kills  him,"  said  Shean,  "but 
I  can  throw  him." 

It  annoyed  Peter  that  everybody  else  in  the  theatre 
laughed  so  loudly. 

" Yesterday,"  continued  the  real  toreador,  "I 
killed  four  bulls  in  the  arena." 

"I  had  him  for  breakfast." 

"What  are  you  talking  about?  What  did  you 
have  for  breakfast?" 

"Farina." 

Peter  thought  he  would  go  but  he  waited  in  the 
hope  that  it  might  get  better.  Presently  Shean  and 
the  tall  man  got  into  an  argument.  The  serious  one 
of  the  pair  contended  that  Otto  Schmaltz,  the  char 
acter  played  by  Shean,  did  not  have  a  whole  shirt 
on  his  back. 

"I  bet  you !  I  bet  you !"  shouted  Schmaltz  danc 
ing  about  and  patting  the  other  man  on  the  cheek. 
They  came  close  to  the  footlights  and  placed  huge 
piles  of  stage  money  side  by  side. 

"Now,"  said  the  big  man,  "the  bet  is  you  haven't 
got  a  whole  shirt  on  your  back." 

"Ches,"  replied  Schmaltz. 

'Why,  you  poor  pusillanimous,   transcendental, 
ossified  little  shrimp,  you,"  said  the  big  man.    "Of 


64  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

course  you  haven't  got  a  whole  shirt  on  your  back. 
Half  of  it  is  on  the  front." 

"Ha!  Ha!  Ha!"  he  continued  sneeringly  and 
kicked  the  little  man  resoundingly  while  the  crowd 
screamed. 

Later  Schmaltz  bet  with  somebody  else  taking  the 
other  side  of  the  contention,  but  again  he  lost  because 
when  it  came  time  for  the  tag  line  he  grew  confused 
and  shouted.  "Why,  you  poor  pussaliniment, 
tramps-on-a-dimple,  oysterfied  little  shrimp,  you, 
half  of  de  back  is  on  the  front."  And  again  the  for 
tune  of  Schmaltz  was  swept  away  and  again  he  was 
kicked. 

Possibly  the  three  cocktails  had  begun  to  have 
some  effect  after  all  or  it  may  have  been  something 
else,  but  at  any  rate  Peter  was  no  longer  merely 
bored  by  all  these  happenings.  His  sensation  was 
just  as  unpleasant,  but  it  was  acute.  Somehow  or 
other  the  story  of  Schmaltz  and  the  shirt  had  made 
him  sad. 

"Schmaltz  is  on  me,"  he  thought.  "Schmaltz  is 
everybody.  Getting  fooled  and  getting  kicked." 
His  musing  became  more  vague.  "Half  of  the  back 
is  on  the  front,"  seemed  to  take  form  as  a  tragic 
complaint  against  life.  He  and  Schmaltz  they 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  65 

couldn't  have  it  whole  because  "half  of  the  back  is 
on  the  front." 

More  disturbing  moralizing  was  yet  to  come  from 
the  book  of  "Dave  Shean's  Joy  Girls."  The  next 
entertainers  were  the  Mulligan  Brothers,  female 
impersonators.  One  played  the  part  of  Clara  and 
the  other  was  Margie. 

"The  sailors  on  that  ship  was  awful,"  began 
Clara.  "The  sailors  on  that  ship  was  just  awful. 
The  poor  girl  was-  sinking  there  in  the  water  and 
they  wouldn't  let  her  into  the  lifeboat.  Every  time 
she  came  up,  Margie,  one  of  the  sailors  hit  her  over 
the  head  with  an  oar." 

Margie  began  to  laugh  stridently. 

"What  are  you  laughing  for,  Margie?  Did  you 
hear  what  I  was  telling  you  ?  I  said  every  time  the 
poor  girl  came  up  a  sailor  hit  her  over  the  head  with 
an  oar." 

"Wasn't  she  the  fool  to  come  up,"  said  Margie. 

Peter  knew  that  was  not  a  joke.  Here  was  his  case 
against  life  summed  up  in  a  sentence.  Idiots  about 
him  were  laughing.  Couldn't  they  see  the  bitterness 
of  it.  "Wasn't  she  the  fool  to  come  up!"  That  was 
his  folly.  He  was  going  on  taking  the  buffeting  of 
the  oars  and  for  no  reason.  And  yet  he  knew  per- 
s 


66  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

fectly  well  that  he  would  continue  to  come  up  no 
matter  what  blows  fell  about  his  head  and  shoulders. 
There  was  no  use  making  any  resolve  to  quit  it  all. 
Peter  had  no  facility  for  suicide.  He  did  not  dare 
and  he  tried  to  justify  himself  in  this  unwillingness. 

"After  all,"  he  thought,  "it  would  be  a  pretty 
rotten  trick  to  play  on  Kate.  I  promised  her  she 
could  have  Sunday  off." 

One  piece  of  positive  action  he  could  and  did 
take.  He  did  not  wait  to  gather  any  further 
pessimistic  contributions  to  cosmic  philosophy  from 
"Dave  Shean's  Joy  Girls,"  but  walked  out  in  the 
middle  of  Shean's  drunken  act.  The  comedian  was 
pretending  that  the  edge  of  the  stage  was  the  brass 
rail  along  a  bar.  Now  he  was  swaying  far  over  the 
orchestra  pit  and  seemed  about  to  fall  into  it.  A 
woman  in  front  of  Peter  screamed.  Shean  slowly 
straightened  himself  up  and  shook  a  reproving  ringer 
at  the  laughing  audience.  "My  wife's  bes'  HI* 
woman  in  woif,"  he  said  and  did  a  hiccough.  Still 
he  seemed  sober  enough  when  Peter  sitting  on  the 
aisle  in  the  second  row  got  up  and  started  out  of  the 
theatre. 

"Don't  you  like  our  show?"  he  called  after  him. 

Peter  flushed  and  made  no  answer. 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  67 

"I  guess  I'm  too  natural,"  said  Shean.  "He  can't 
stand  it.  You  know  how  it  is.  He's  a  married  man 
himself." 

"Hey,  Percy,"  he  shouted  after  the  retreating 
figure  of  Peter  in  a  high  falsetto,  "you'll  find  a 
saloon  right  around  the  corner.  Tell  the  bartender 
to  let  you  have  one  on  Otto  Schmaltz." 

Peter    conscientiously    walked    past    the    saloon 
mentioned  by  the  impertinent  Shean  and  went  into 
the  next  one  three  blocks  farther  on.     He  began  to 
drink  doggedly  and  consequently  with  slight  effect. 
He  was  like  a  sleepless  person.    No  blur  came  over 
the  acuteness  of  his  consciousness.     He  might  just 
as  well  have  tried  counting  sheep  jumping  over  a 
fence.    "Wasn't  she  the  fool  to  come  up !"  recurred 
in  his  ears  as  if  it  had  been  a  clock  ticking  late  at 
night  in  a  big  silent  house.    Straight  whiskey  tasted 
abominably  and  returned  no  reward  for  his  efforts. 
In  the  back  room  somebody  was  singing  "Mother 
Machree"  and  cheating  on  the  high  notes.    An  idea 
for  a  newspaper  paragraph  came  to  Peter.     Some 
body    had    been    conducting    an    agitation    in    the 
Bulletin  against  the   use  of   "The   Star   Spangled 
Banner"  as  a  national  anthem  on  the  ground  that 
the  air  was  originally  that  of  a  drinking  song.    "We 


68  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

ought  to  point  out,"  thought  Peter,  "that  it  takes  a 
few  drinks  to  make  anybody  think  he  can  get  up 
to  'the  rockets'  red  glare/  " 

He  wished  his  mind  would  stop  pelting  him  with 
ideas.  Thinking  ought  not  to  keep  up  when  he 
hated  it  so.  Leaving  the  bar,  Peter  took  his  drink 
over  into  the  corner  and  sat  down  at  a  table.  On  the 
wall  to  his  left  hung  a  large  colored  picture  labelled 
"Through  the  Keyhole."  Peter  looked  at  it  and 
then  moved  his  chair  around  so  that  he  couldn't 
see  it.  He  realized  that  he  must  get  much  drunker. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IT  was  after  ten  when  Peter  came  into  Billy 
Gallivan's,  the  restaurant  of  the  singing  waiters.  By 
now  he  could  not  see  distinctly  every  sheep  which 
jumped  over  the  fence  but  he  was  still  counting 
them.  "I  am  drunk/'  he  said  to  himself.  "I  am 
so  drunk  that  nothing  matters."  But  he  knew  that 
it  was  not  so.  Unfortunately  the  formula  of  Coue 
had  not  yet  been  given  to  the  world  and  Peter  lacked 
the  prevision  to  say,  "Drink  by  drink  I  am  getting 
drunker  and  drunker  and  drunker." 

And  the  singing  waiters  failed  to  inspire  him  with 
that  reckless  disregard  for  present,  past  and  future 
which  he  desired.  One  of  them,  a  fat  man  who  had 
blonde  hair  and  sang  bass,  eventually  took  Peter's 
order.  He  set  the  glass  on  the  table  and  then  moved 
away  no  more  than  a  step  to  begin  his  song. 
"When  I'm  a-a-lone  I'm  lonely,"  he  thundered  in 
Peter's  ear,  "when  I'm  a-a-lone  I'm  bloo."  Proba 
bly  he  was  not  as  lonely  as  Peter.  It  made  it  worse 

69 


70  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

because  the  song  was  so  silly.  "Every  other  girl 
'and  brother/'  the  verse  went  on  later,  "has  some  pal 
just  like  a  mother." 

By  this  time  the  waiters  were  gathering  from  all 
over  the  long  low  room.  Six  of  them  stood  shoulder 
to  shoulder  in  front  of  Peter's  table  and  sang 
together.  "When  I'm  a-a-lone  I'm  lonely,  when 
I'm  a-a-lone  I'm  bloo."  One  of  them  went  up  high 
and  quavered.  Others  went  elsewhere.  There  was 
a  voice  for  every  level.  It  was  part  singing.  And 
they  swayed  back  and  forth  from  one  foot  to  another. 
The  room  swayed  with  them  but  it  would  not  keep 
time.  The  rhythm  of  the  room  was  much  longer. 
Peter  could  feel  it  pound  as  if  he  had  been  a  mile 
runner  and  the  finish  lay  a  hundred  yards  ahead 
of  him.  He  still  knew  that  he  was  a  fool  to  come 
up. 

After  a  long  time  the  song  stopped.  The  patrons 
of  the  place  began  to  throw  money  out  to  the  singers. 
With  painstaking  recklessness  Peter  fumbled  in  his 
pockets  and  found  a  silver  dollar.  It  almost  filled 
his  hand  as  if  it  had  been  a  baseball.  He  shook  his 
head  vehemently.  What  did  he  care  if  the  count 
was  two  and  three,  he  was  not  going  to  lay  it  over. 
The  curve  was  the  trick.  The  outside  corner  was 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  71 

the  nervy  spot  to  shoot  for.  Drawing  back  his  arm 
he  flung  the  dollar  and  it  crashed  against  a  table  and 
bounded  away.  For  a  second  the  coin  spun  around 
and  then  it  waddled  in  a  long  arc  straight  home  to 
Peter's  chair.  He  put  his  foot  on  it  and  picked  it 
up.  No,  he  was  too  sober  not  to  know  that  a 
dollar  was  excessive. 

These  men  were  not  very  good  waiters — any  of 
them — but  that  did  not  make  them  artists.  They 
were  not  very  good  singers  either.  Peter  re 
membered  that  he  had  read  in  his  little  leather 
Bible,  "You  cannot  serve  God  and  mammon."  That 
was  the  trouble.  Art  and  utility  should  never  meet. 
A  fine  tenor  ought  not  to  serve  drinks  and  even 
indifferent  singing  seemed  to  spoil  a  man  as  a 
waiter.  This  theme  had  been  in  his  mind  before. 
A  great  dancer  could  not  be  a  mother.  Yes,  that 
was  the  point  where  this  speculation  had  begun.  At 
last  he  found  a  quarter  and  threw  that  and  he  left 
a  ten  cent  tip  on  the  table. 

"Hello,  big  boy,"  said  a  woman  as  he  was  going 
out.  She  was  as  blonde  and  as  fat  as  the  lonely 
waiter  and  much  redder.  Peter  made  no  reply  but 
went  out  and  up  the  street  to  the  Eldorado.  Eldor 
ado  1  That  was  a  land  of  which  the  Spaniards  had 


72  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

dreamed,  a  land  of  gold.  They  never  found  it. 
Perhaps  that  was  just  as  well.  Somebody  in  a  tub 
had  said,  "Eldorado!"  No,  he  didn't — that  was 
"Eureka!" 

At  the  Eldorado  the  waiters  didn't  sing  at  all. 
Special  people  did  that.  But  mostly  it  was  just 
dancing.  The  floor  was  filled  with  couples.  A  long 
flight  of  steps  led  down  to  the  tables.  At  the  foot 
of  the  steps  a  girl  sat  alone.  She  was  a  young  girl 
and  pretty  but  hard  and  brazen  enough.  And  she 
didn't  call  him,  "Dearie."  She  merely  said,  "Buy 
me  a  drink." 

Peter  sat  down. 

"My  name's  Elaine,"  she  said.  "But  you  don't  have 
to  call  me  that.  I  think  it's  sort  of  a  cold  name, 
don't  you?  I'm  not  cold.  People  that  like  me  call 
me  'Red/  on  account  of  my  hair.  Now  you  tell  me 
your  name." 

"John  Whittier,"  said  Peter,  reverting  to  the 
slumming  name  he  had  used  in  his  Freshman  year 
at  Harvard.  It  was  the  name  of  the  proctor  in  his 
entry. 

"Maybe  John  Greenleaf  Whittier,"  said  Elaine. 

"Perhaps  you're  a  poet.  Yes,  I  can  see  you're  a 
poet." 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  73 

Peter  was  annoyed.  "John  Whittier's  not  my 
real  name,"  he  said.  "My  name's  Peter  Neale." 

That  aroused  no  flash  of  recognition.  Peter  was 
surprised  that  this  girl  of  the  Eldorado  should  know 
John  Greenleaf  Whittier  and  never  have  heard  of 
Peter  Neale. 

"I  don't  think  it's  very  nice  of  you,"  she  said, 
"not  to  give  me  your  real  name.  I  gave  you  mine. 
Are  you  ashamed  of  me?" 

"No,"  replied  Peter,  "I'm  ashamed  of  myself." 

"What  are  you  doing?" 

"Trying  to  get  drunk." 

"We'll  get  drunk  together.     I'll  help  you." 

Drinking  with  somebody  did  seem  to  help.  At 
any  rate  after  two  rounds  Peter  achieved  for  the 
first  time  during  the  evening  that  detached  feeling 
which  he  had  been  seeking.  All  the  dancers  now 
were  dim  and  distant.  The  music  was  something 
which  tinkled  from  down  a  long  corridor.  Even 
the  obligation  to  drink  seemed  lighter.  Peter  merely 
sat  and  stared  at  Elaine.  Gray-eyed,  firm  and 
flaming,  it  was  a  face  which  blotted  out  all  other 
images.  He  found  himself  thinking  only  of  this 
woman  in  front  of  him.  And  she  was  real.  She 
was  close.  He  could  touch  her. 


74  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

"Who  are  you  looking  at?"  said  the  girl. 

"Elaine." 

"I  told  you  that  people  that  liked  me  called  me 
Red.  Why  don't  you  call  me  that?  Why  don't 
you  like  me?"  4 

"I  like  you  a  lot." 

Elaine  made  a  face  at  him.  In  her  no  barriers 
seemed  to  have  been  set  up  against  the  potency  of 
drinking.  Already  she  was  in  the  babbling  stage. 

"I'm  not  like  the  rest  of  the  girls  around  here. 
You  don't  need  to  be  ashamed  of  me.  I've  had  a 
good  education.  I  can  prove  it  to  you.  Ask  me 
about  the  square  on  the  hypotenuse  of  a  right-angled 
triangle." 

"What  about  it?" 

"It's  equal  to  the  sum  of  the  squares  on  the  other 
two  sides.  You  see,  if  it  wasn't  for  hard  luck  I 
wouldn't  be  in  a  place  like  this.  I'm  a  lady.  I 
know  Latin  too.  Amo,  that's  love.  Amo,  I  love. 
Amos,  you  love." 

"Don't,"  said  Peter  crossly.  The  spell  was 
broken.  The  woman  was  making  him  think.  Now 
he  could  hear  the  drums  again.  This  was  the 
meanest  trick  of  many  which  the  fate  of  the  day  had 
played  him.  With  all  the  evil  women  of  a  great  city 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  75 

to  choose  from  it  had  been  Peter's  misfortune  to 
happen  upon  an  educated  harlot.  He  had  drugged 
himself  steadfastly  to  be  rowdy  and  here  was  a  lady 
who  talked  about  Latin  and  right  angles. 

Elaine  sensed  a  mistake  in  technique.  "Come 
away  from  here,  Peter,"  she  said.  "Come  on. 
You're  just  a  tired  little  baby.  You  don't  want  to 
talk  any  more.  You're  my  little  baby." 

Peter  got  up  and  had  to  catch  the  table  to  keep 
from  falling  over.  "My  name's  Otto  Schmaltz," 
he  said  and  did  a  silly  imitation  of  the  accent  of  the 
comedian  in  "The  Joy  Girls."  But  the  possibility 
of  a  revision  of  the  material  came  to  him.  "My 
baby's  bes'  HI'  baby  in  the  world." 

He  would  have  gone  away  at  once,  but  a  man 
came  down  the  stairs  at  that  moment  and  approached 
the  table.  "Red,"  he  said,  "if  you  ever  stand  me  up 
again  I'll  bust  your  face." 

"Honest,  Jim,"  said  the  girl,  "I  waited  half  an 
hour.  I  thought  you  weren't  coming." 

"Let  that  lady  alone,"  said  Peter.  "She's  with 
me." 

He  didn't  like  Elaine  any  more,  but  he  knew  that 
the  code  demanded  that  he  should  show  resentment 
of  the  intrusion. 


76  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

"Keep  your  face  out  of  this,"  said  the  newcomer. 
"What  damned  business  is  it  of  yours?" 

There  was  a  ready-made  answer  for  that  in  the 
code* 

"You  come  outside  and  I'll  make  it  my  business," 
said  Peter. 

"Don't  waste  your  time  on  the  big  souse,  Jim," 
said  Elaine  clutching  at  the  arm  of  the  man  who 
had  threatened  her.  But  the  fact  that  the  girl 
absolved  Peter  from  all  the  cares  of  guardianship 
did  not  remove  his  responsibilities  according  to  the 
code.  "Come  on  outside,"  he  repeated.  He  went 
slowly  up  the  stairs  but  when  he  reached  the  side 
walk  and  turned  around  there  was  no  Jim.  Peter 
waited.  He  wanted  very  much  to  hit  somebody  and 
Jim  seemed  wholly  appropriate.  After  a  few 
seconds  the  man  came  out.  He  walked  up  close  to 
Peter  but  he  held  his  hands  behind  his  back. 
According  to  the  code  nothing  could  be  done  until 
each  had  extended  an  arm. 

"Come  on,"  said  Peter  impatiently,  "put  up  your 
hands  and  I'll  punch  your  head  off." 

Jim  suddenly  drew  his  right  arm  from  behind  his 
back  and  clipped  him  sharply  over  the  head  with  a 
bottle.  Peter  stared  at  him  wonderingly  for  almost 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  77 

a  second.  Surprise  seemed  to  halt  the  message  to 
his  brain.  Slowly  he  crumpled  up  on  the  sidewalk. 
The  blow  was  not  painful,  but  the  swinging  arc  of 
all  things  visible  was  now  longer  than  ever  before. 
The  lights,  the  lamp-posts  and  the  buildings  slowly 
turned  end  over  end  in  a  complete  circle.  Peter 
put  one  hand  to  his  head.  It  was  wet  and  sticky. 
For  a  second  or  so  he  considered  that  and  wondered. 
Finally  he  realized  that  it  was  blood.  Lifting  him 
self  up  on  his  hands  and  knees  he  saw  Jim  and 
Elaine  scrambling  into  a  taxicab. 

"I'll  bet  she  doesn't  talk  about  right  angles  to 
him,"  thought  Peter.  For  a  moment  he  considered 
pursuit,  but  before  he  could  make  up  his  mind  the 
taxicab  had  started.  It  swept  past  him  no  more  than 
ten  feet  away.  He  could  see  the  red  head  of  the 
woman  in  the  window.  One  week  later  he  decided 
that  he  should  have  cupped  his  hands  and  shouted, 
"You  hypotenuse  hussy!"  That  night  he  could 
think  of  nothing.  The  fragments  of  glass  lay 
about  him.  Peter  examined  them  and  found  it 
had  been  a  champagne  bottle.  After  a  bit  he 
called  a  taxicab  for  himself  and  said,  "Go  to  some 
hospital  that's  near."  He  had  begun  to  feel  a  little 
faint. 


78  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

A  doctor  in  the  reception  room  dug  the  glass  out 
of  Peter's  scalp  bit  by  bit  and  hurt  him  dreadfully. 
Every  stab  of  pain  cut  through  the  fumes  and  left 
him  clear-headed.  Nothing  was  forgotten  any  more. 
He  was  able  to  compare  the  relative  poignancy  of 
two  sorts  of  pain  and  decided  that  he  did  not  care 
much  how  long  the  doctor  kept  it  up.  At  last  the 
job  was  finished  and  Peter's  head  bandaged. 

"You  were  drunk,  weren't  you?"  said  the  doc 
tor. 

"Yes,"  said  Peter,  "I  was." 

There  was  no  other  comment.  Nobody  would 
call  Peter  Sir  Galahad  on  account  of  this  fight  and 
yet  it  was  honorable  enough  he  thought,  even  if  the 
issues  were  a  little  mixed.  Nor  was  it  entirely  unsat 
isfactory.  At  least  he  had  been  able  to  taunt  Fate 
into  an  overt  act.  He  knew  a  poem  by  a  man  who 
wrote,  "My  head  is  bloody  but  unbowed."  Peter 
had  often  used  that  line  in  prizefight  stories.  Still 
he  was  a  little  sick  now  and  perfectly  sober.  He 
looked  at  his  watch.  In  an  hour  or  so  it  would 
be  dawn.  There  didn't  seem  to  be  anything  to  do 
but  go  home. 

Opening  the  door  of  his  apartment,  Peter  tripped 
over  something  in  the  dark  and  fell  with  a  bang. 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  79 

Kate  woke  and  called  out  in  obvious  terror,  "Who's 
there?" 

"It's  only  me,"  said  Peter,  "Mr.  Neale.  I  decided 
not  to  stay  out  after  all.  I'm  sorry  I  woke  you  up. 
I  fell  over  the  baby  carriage." 


CHAPTER  IX 

SOMEBODY  at  the  office  must  have  heard  about  the 
flight  of  Maria  Algarez,  for  when  Peter  returned 
from  Goldfield  he  had  found  at  his  flat  a  telegram 
which  said,  "Lay  off  a  couple  of  weeks.  Longer  if 
you  like — Miles,  managing  editor."  That  was  an 
extraordinary  thing  because  the  material  for  Peter's 
column — "Looking  Them  Over  with  Peter  Neale" 
— was  only  up  one  week  ahead.  A  two  weeks' 
vacation  would  mean  not  only  that  there  would  be 
no  Peter  Neale  in  the  Bulletin,  but  that  in  thirty- 
one  other  papers  throughout  the  country  the  feature 
would  be  missing.  Peter  wondered  how  Miles  could 
suggest  a  thing  like  that  so  calmly.  Maria's  running 
away  ought  not  to  wrench  a  whole  chain  of  news 
papers  in  that  fashion.  In  daydreams  Peter  had 
often  pictured  himself  dying  from  flood,  or  earth 
quake  or  a  stray  bullet  in  some  great  riot.  When 
the  rescuers  picked  him  up  and  bent  over  to  hear 
what  he  might  say  his  lips  framed  the  words,  "Send 
a  story  to  the  Bulletin !" 

80 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  81 

The  Bulletin  couldn't  be  bothered  about  people's 
dying  or  running  away.  The  Bulletin  was  bigger 
than  that.  The  newspaper  yarn  of  Rusk's  which  had 
impressed  Peter  the  most  was  about  a  man  named 
O'Brale  in  San  Francisco.  O'Brale  was  secretly 
engaged  to  a  girl  in  Alameda  and  then  a  week  or  so 
before  they  were  to  be  married  she  had  eloped  with 
a  man  who  said  he  was  a  Polish  Count.  According 
to  Rusk  by  some  strange  coincidence  O'Brale 
received  the  assignment  to  cover  the  story.  He  didn't 
beg  off.  He  sat  down  to  write  it  and  he  finished  up 
his  story  with :  "And  when  the  news  of  Miss  Lee's 
elopement  drifted  into  the  office  of  the  Chronicle  a 
reporter  on  the  city  staff  sighed  and  said,  'Scooped 
again.'  " 

Miles  must  be  a  fool  not  to  know  that  even  after 
Peter  Neale  had  been  smashed  that  part  of  him 
which  was  the  Bulletin  would  go  on.  A  picture  sud 
denly  came  to  Peter.  That  was  the  way  he  did  his 
thinking.  "I  can  go  on  wriggling,"  he  said  to  him 
self,  "until  the  first  edition." 

Peter  felt  that  it  was  up  to  him  to  go  down  to  the 
office  and  show  them  that.  He  would  have  to  show 
Miles.  Miles  was  new  to  him.  The  managing 
editor  traffic  through  the  office  of  the  Bulletin  was 


82  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

prodigious.  After  all  Peter  had  been  away  for  two 
weeks  and  it  was  only  natural  that  there  should  be  a 
new  man  in  charge.  Peter  wasn't  a  veteran,  but  he 
had  seen  five  managing  editors  in  his  time  and  prob 
ably  a  couple  of  hundred  copy  readers.  "Looking 
Them  Over"  was  different.  That  was  something 
vital  and  rooted  in  the  Bulletin.  It  wasn't  so  much 
that  Peter  Neale  was  a  part  of  the  Bulletin  as  that 
the  Bulletin  was  a  part  of  Peter  Neale.  'This  other 
thing,"  thought  Peter,  "is  just  my  private  life." 

He  felt  pretty  rocky  when  he  got  up.  During  the 
night  the  bandages  had  turned  bloody.  It  made  him 
shaky  to  look  at  himself.  Something  of  the  rhythm 
of  the  buildings  as  they  swung  in  the  long  arc  and 
turned  over  was  still  in  the  pulse  of  Peter.  All  right, 
but  he  had  seen  Cans  get  up  when  his  legs  would 
barely  hold  him.  Not  only  get  up  but  walk  deliber 
ately  across  the  ring  to  meet  the  charge  of  Battling 
Nelson. 

Neale  went  down  town.  There  was  no  one  else 
in  the  elevator  when  he  went  up  to  the  ninth  floor 
to  the  office  of  the  Bulletin,  but  Sykes,  the  head  office 
boy,  was  in  the  hall  outside  the  city  room.  He 
looked  up  and  said,  "Hello,  Mr.  Neale." 

So  far  it  was  all  right.    Nelson  had  knocked  out 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  83 

Cans  and  Maria  had  run  away  since  Peter  and  Sykes 
had  last  seen  each  other.  Sykes  had  been  able  to 
take  all  that  in  his  stride.  Peter  wondered  if  Miles 
would  be  as  smart.  There  was  a  man  at  the  desk,  a 
fat  placid  man,  in  the  office  of  the  managing  editor. 
Peter  knocked  at  the  door  and  went  in  before  the 
man  looked  up.  "My  name's  Peter  Neale,"  he  said. 
"You're  Mr.  Miles,  aren't  you?  I  got  your  tele 
gram.  It  was  nice  of  you,  but  I  don't  want  any  time 
off.  There's  a  whole  batch  of  stuff  due  for  the 
syndicate  tomorrow." 

Miles  nodded.  He  tilted  his  chair  back  three 
times  without  saying  anything.  It  was  like  a 
pitcher's  wind-up.  Peter  found  Miles  always  spoke 
just  after  the  third  tilt.  "Have  a  cigarette,"  he  said. 
He  also  provided  a  match.  Then  letting  the  chair  rest 
on  the  floor  he  sat  looking  at  Peter.  There  wasn't 
any  surprise  or  inquiry  in  his  face.  Peter  felt 
acutely  conscious  of  his  bloody  bandages.  He  sat 
waiting  to  hear,  "Have  an  accident?"  or  something 
like  that,  but  Miles  seemed  to  take  it  as  a  matter  of 
course  that  Peter  was  all  cut  up.  Apparently  the 
managing  editor  accepted  it  as  something  inevitable 
in  an  out-of-town  assignment.  Peter  dreaded  the 
question  so  long  that  he  would  have  felt  easier  if 


84  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

Miles  had  asked  him  about  the  bandages.  He  was 
prepared  to  say  something  about  a  taxicab.  After 
all  it  wasn't  fair  that  Miles  should  assume  that  he 
had  been  drunk  just  because  he  had.  Presently  the 
tilting  began  again.  One,  two,  three,  Peter  counted 
to  himself.  "I  want  you  to  do  baseball  in  addition 
to  your  column,"  said  Miles.  "Monday  isn't  too 
soon  to  start  in,  is  it?" 

"Monday's  all  right/'  said  Peter. 

"AH  right,"  said  Miles.  "You  need  a  match,"  he 
added.  "Your  cigarette's  gone  out." 

Neither  of  them  said  anything  then  for  a  minute. 
Miles  continued  to  look  at  him  and  ignore  the 
bandages. 

"All  right  on  Monday,"  said  Peter  and  went  across 
the  hall  to  his  own  office.  Putting  the  catch  on,  he 
closed  the  door.  Miles  hadn't  talked  about  his  pri 
vate  life,  but  Peter  felt  that  he  must  know  about  it. 
Probably  he  was  thinking  about  it  every  time  he 
quit  tilting.  That  was  the  trouble. 

Out  there  in  the  City  Room  they  were  talking 
about  it  too.  They  must  be.  Nothing  happened  to 
anybody  on  the  Bulletin  that  didn't  get  talked  about 
in  the  City  Room.  No  district  in  the  town  was 
covered  so  perfectly  as  the  reporters  covered  the  lives 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  85 

of  each  other.  When  Woolstone,  the  Sunday  editor, 
started  living  with  that  little  girl,  Miss  Gray,  the  one 
who  wrote  the  piece  about  the  Haymarket,  it  was 
common  gossip  within  a  week.  Woolstone  hadn't 
told  anybody.  Indeed  he  hadn't  said  a  word  except 
that  the  Haymarket  story  was  the  finest  piece  of 
English  prose  since  De  Quincey.  But  somehow  after 
that  everybody  knew  that  Woolstone  was  living  with 
Miss  Gray. 

Peter  put  a  sheet  of  paper  into  his  typewriter  and 
rapidly  wrote  at  the  top  of  the  upper  right-hand  cor 
ner  Neale — Sports — Syndicate.  Then  he  turned 
half  of  the  sheet  through  the  machine  and  wrote 
"Looking  Them  Over  With  Peter  Neale — (Copy 
right)/'  There  he  stuck. 

The  sheet  of  paper  had  not  been  blemished  but 
after  a  while  Peter  took  it  out  and  wrote  the  same 
thing  on  another.  After  that  he  sharpened  a  pencil. 
He  wanted  to  get  a  drink  of  water  but  that  was  out 
in  the  City  Room.  It  was  foolish  of  him  not  to  have 
brought  cigarettes.  Miles  had  cigarettes,  but  Peter 
didn't  want  to  face  that  scrutiny  any  more.  "Gans," 
he  wrote,  "was  not  outboxed  but  he  was  outfought." 
That  wouldn't  do.  There  had  been  a  line  almost  like 
that  in  his  fight  story.  Of  course  he  might  do  some 


86  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

sort  of  prediction  story  about  how  long  Battling 
Nelson  would  hold  the  title.  A  man  who  took  all 
that  punishment  couldn't  last  so  very  long.  But 
suddenly  Peter  realized  that  he  didn't  give  a  damn 
about  Cans  or  about  Nelson.  The  Bulletin  didn't 
make  so  much  difference  either.  Maria  was  more 
than  all  this.  He'd  ask  Miles  to  send  him  to  Africa 
or  China  or  some  place.  Sedition  seeped  in.  Base 
ball  wasn't  exciting  enough  to  make  him  forget.  He 
tried  to  make  his  mind  do  him  a  picture  of  Matty 
bending  back  and  then  shooting  over  his  fast  one. 
Instead  he  saw  Maria  Algarez  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  big  stage. 

That  wouldn't  do.  Peter  gripped  the  edge  of  his 
desk.  If  his  mind  was  only  something  that  would 
stand  up  to  him  and  fight  like  a  man.  He  could 
heave  it  back  all  right  if  only  he  could  get  a  hand 
on  it.  Instead  he  pushed  against  the  desk.  Very 
slowly  the  picture  began  to  fade.  Maria  was  taller 
and  broader.  Now  it  was  Matty.  Dim  but  un 
mistakably  Matty.  But  the  figure  stood  in  the 
centre  of  the  big  stage.  He  must  get  him  out  of 
there.  If  he  was  to  hold  the  thing  it  would  have  to 
move  and  take  on  life.  Suddenly  Peter  realized  the 
trick.  The  picture  ought  not  to  be  Matty  throwing 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  87 

his  fast  one.  The  fadeway!  That  was  the  thing 
which  marked  Matty  in  his  mind  above  all  others. 
He  closed  his  eyes  in  order  to  help.  The  figure  bent 
back.  The  arms  came  up  over  the  head.  The  left 
leg  kicked.  No,  it  was  not  Maria  kicking.  This 
was  a  huge  clumsy  leg  which  moved  slowly,  ever  so 
slowly,  grinding  power  for  the  swing  of  back  and 
shoulders  which  was  to  come.  Then  there  was  the 
lunge  forward.  Matty  had  thrown  the  ball  straight 
at  his  head.  He  conquered  the  impulse  to  duck. 
This  was  the  slow  ball.  He  could  see  the  seams. 
Now  it  was  slower  and  growing  bigger  and  bigger 
all  the  time.  It  would  walk  past  him  shoulder  high. 
Peter  swung  at  it  and  the  ball  wasn't  there.  A  sud 
den  decision  had  come  upon  it.  Down  it  swooped 
and  out.  It  had  passed  him.  Peter  opened  his  eyes. 
He  didn't  want  to  go  to  China  or  Africa  after  all. 
Honus  Wagner  and  the  Pirates  would  be  at  the 
Polo  Grounds  on  Monday. 

Peter  got  up  and  started  for  his  drink  of  water. 
There  were  only  three  men  in  the  City  Room. 
Charlie  Hall  was  sitting  at  his  desk  right  beside  the 
ice  cooler.  Perhaps  Charlie  had  had  a  lot  of  fun 
out  of  that  story  of  Maria  Algarez  running  away. 
Women  didn't  run  away  from  Charlie.  Peter  re- 


88  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

membered  the  time  Charlie  was  marooned  in  the 
Press  Club.  He  stuck  in  the  poker  game  for  two 
days  not  daring  to  leave  the  building.  The  elevator 
man  had  told  him  of  the  woman  who  kept  coming 
in  every  half  an  hour  or  so  and  asking  for  Mr. 
Hall.  According  to  the  elevator  man  she  was  very 
much  excited.  Charlie  said  it  sounded  a  lot  like 
Ethel.  He  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  she  wanted  to 
shoot  him.  She  had  often  threatened  to  do  that. 
Twice  during  those  two  days  Peter  had  volunteered 
to  go  down  and  scout  around.  Both  times  he  had 
seen  a  woman  pacing  the  sidewalk  just  across  the 
street  from  the  Press  Club.  It  looked  like  the  same 
woman.  Charlie  said  probably  it  was.  Ethel  was 
very  determined.  Finally  they  had  to  get  a  police 
man  to  come  and  tell  Ethel  to  go  away.  Nobody 
ever  seemed  so  glamorous  to  Peter  as  Charlie  dur 
ing  those  two  days.  Peter  wondered  if  any  woman 
would  ever  want  to  shoot  him. 

There  was  no  way  of  getting  to  the  ice  cooler 
without  passing  Charlie.  Peter  did  it  slowly. 
Charlie  looked  up.  "Have  any  fun  at  the  fight  ?" 
he  asked. 

"No,  it  was  too  hot.  Anyhow  I  wanted  to  see 
Cans  win." 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  89 

"It  was  a  great  story  you  wrote." 

'I'm  glad  you  liked  it." 

'Too  bad  about  the  nigger — he  was  the  smartest 
of  the  lot,  wasn't  he?" 

''Yes,  and  don't  forget  he  could  hit  too.  Nelson 
wouldn't  have  had  a  chance  with  him  five  years 
ago." 

Peter  was  turning  to  go  back  to  his  office  when 
Charlie  Hall  thrust  out  a  hand  and  slapped  him  on 
the  shoulder.  "I  hear  you've  had  some  hard  luck," 
he  said.  "I'm  sorry." 

Peter  couldn't  answer  for  a  second.  "I  guess 
nobody  ever  is  happy  so  very  much,"  Charlie  con 
tinued,  sensing  that  Peter  was  stumped  for  the  mo 
ment.  "Now  you  take  me.  I  suppose  you'd  say 
I  was  happily  married.  I've  been  married  fifteen 
years  and  I've  got  five  children.  Well,  sometimes 
when  I  sit  down  at  home  I  wonder,  'What's  the  use 
of  all  this  anyway?'  There  ought  to  be  a  law  that 
reporters  can't  get  married.  It's  bad  for  them  and 
it's  bad  for  the  paper." 

"I  guess  you're  right,"  said  Peter. 

"The  thing  to  do  is  not  to  take  women  seriously. 
They'll  bust  hell  out  of  you  if  you  do." 

Peter  brightened  perceptibly.     "Do  you  remem- 


90  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

ber  that  time  you  got  stuck  up  in  the  Press  Club  and 
the  girl  was  waiting  downstairs  to  shoot  you?"  he 
inquired  with  a  certain  eagerness. 

"Oh  yes,  sure,  Grade." 

"No,  that  wasn't  the  name.    It  was  Ethel." 

"Ethel? — I  remember  now.  I  had  it  mixed  up 
with  a  business  in  Chicago.  Ethel !  Oh  yes,  indeed. 
She  was  a  wild  one.  She  was  just  about  the  most 
dangerous  woman  south  of  Fifty-ninth  Street. 
That  was  a  couple  of  years  ago.  I  can't  stand  so 
much  excitement  now." 

"Go  on,"  said  Peter,  "I  suppose  you'll  be  telling 
me  you've  reformed." 

"That  wouldn't  be  so  far  off  the  truth.  Anyhow 
where  do  you  get  off.  Who  beaned  you?" 

Another  burden  of  reticence  was  snatched  away. 
At  last  Peter  had  a  chance  to  tell  somebody  about 
the  bandages. 

"I  was  with  a  woman  up  at  the  Eldorado.  You 
know  the  Eldorado.  And  a  big  fellow  comes  over 
and  tries  to  butt  in.  I  bawled  him  out  and  we  went 
up  on  the  sidewalk.  I  made  a  couple  of  passes  at 
him  and  he  hauled  off  and  clipped  me  with  a  bottle 
— a  champagne  bottle.  I  guess  I  was  pretty 
drunk." 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  91 

Charlie  Hall  nodded  his  head.  "You're  all  right. 
I'm  glad.  Some  of  the  boys  around  here  have  been 
telling  me  that  you  were  all  busted  up  about  that 
girl  you  married.  I'm  glad  it's  not  so.  I  knew  you 
had  too  much  sense  for  that.  There  isn't  a  one  of 
them  in  the  whole  world  that's  worth  getting  busted 
up  over.  Don't  take  'em  seriously.  That's  what  I 
say.  I  ought  to  know.  I've  been  married  fifteen 
years.  Well,  almost  fifteen  years.  It'll  be  fifteen 
years  in  October." 

"I'm  all  right,  Charlie.  You  tell  that  to  the  rest. 
I'm  back  on  the  job,  you  know." 

"That's  good.  It  wouldn't  seem  like  the  Bulletin 
without  you." 

Charlie  turned  to  the  story  in  front  of  him  and 
put  one  second  of  energy  into  pounding  the  space 
bar  before  coming  back  to  conversation. 

"Where  is  this  Eldorado?"  he  asked. 

"Fiftieth  Street  and  Seventh  Avenue." 

"Does  it  stay  open  all  night?" 

"Well,  it's  open  all  night  but  after  one  there's  a 
man  on  the  door  and  he  won't  let  you  in  unless  he 
knows  you." 

"Are  they  strict  about  it?" 

"Pretty  strict,  lately,"  said  Peter,  "but  that's  all 


92  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

right,  Charlie.  Any  time  you  want  to  go  up  late  you 
let  me  know.  I'll  be  glad  to  show  you  round.  I'm 
always  free  nights.  Any  night  at  all —  That  is 
any  night  except  Sunday." 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  baby  carriage  was  kept  in  the  kitchen  there 
after  and  Peter  did  not  see  it  again  until  Sunday, 
his  first  Sunday  at  home.  Kate  left  the  flat  very 
early.  Peter  could  not  very  well  object  to  that  be 
cause  she  said  she  was  going  to  mass.  He  wished 
that  she  might  be  converted  to  one  of  the  eleven 
o'clock  denominations,  but  he  supposed  at  her  age 
there  was  small  hope  of  that.  She  would  be  gone, 
she  told  him,  until  nine  or  ten  o'clock  in  the  even 
ing.  Her  niece,  the  one  who  lived  in  Jamaica,  had  a 
new  baby  five  weeks  old.  Kate  was  going  there 
right  after  church.  Peter  thought  that  if  he  had 
Kate's  job  he  would  prefer  to  spend  his  day  off  at 
an  old  folks'  home  or  some  other  spot  exclusively 
mature. 

Still  he  could  understand  the  psychology  of  it. 
Out  in  Jamaica,  Kate  could  sit  around  and  when 
the  baby  cried  she  need  not  move  hand  or  foot.  She 
could  watch  other  people  bustle  around  and  fulfill 

93 


94  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

its  needs.  And  then  every  now  and  then  she  might 
give  advice  and  see  it  carried  out.  He  himself  had 
spent  many  a  day  off  in  the  office  of  the  Bulletin 
sitting  on  the  desk  of  somebody  who  was  working 
and  interrupting  him. 

Before  Kate  left  she  gave  Peter  a  complete  list 
of  directions  for  the  baby's  day  and  also  a  problem 
for  him  to  ponder  over.  'What  will  I  be  calling  the 
boy?"  she  wanted  to  know.  "I  find  it  hard  to  be 
talking  to  him  and  him  with  no  name." 

"I'll  think  it  over,"  Peter  told  her.  After  she 
left  he  did  think  it  over.  He  went  into  the  baby's 
room  and  looked  at  him  as  he  lay  there  to  see  if  the 
child  suggested  any  name  in  particular.  Being 
asleep  he  seemed  a  little  more  impersonal  than  usual. 
Of  course,  Peter  Neale  was  a  pretty  good  name,  but 
there  didn't  seem  to  be  any  point  in  calling  him 
that  unless  in  some  way  or  other  he  seemed  to  be 
Peter.  He  did  sleep  with  his  head  buried  face  down 
in  the  pillow  but  that  was  an  insufficient  bond.  Per 
haps  there  were  millions  of  people  in  the  world  who 
slept  that  way.  Probably  there  were  no  statistics 
on  the  subject. 

Maybe  one  Peter  Neale  was  enough.  It  did  mean 
something.  After  all  it  was  Peter  Neale  who  had 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  95 

written  in  the  Bulletin:  "If  Horace  Fogel  goes 
through  with  his  plan  of  making  a  first  baseman  out 
of  Christy  Mathewson  he  will  be  committing  the 
baseball  crime  of  the  century.  Mathewson,  or 
Matty  as  his  team  mates  call  him,  is  still  green,  but 
he  has  in  him  the  makings  of  one  of  the  greatest 
pitchers  the  world  has  ever  known.  He  has  the 
speed  and  control  and  more  than  that  he  has  a  head 
on  his  shoulders.  Horace  Fogel  hasn't." 

And  they  didn't  switch  Matty  to  first  base  after 
all  and  now  everybody  was  beginning  to  realize  that 
he  was  a  great  pitcher.  But  Peter  Neale  knew  it 
first  of  all.  More  than  that  it  was  Peter  Neale  who 
had  begun  his  round  by  round  story  of  the  Gans- 
Nelson  fight,  only  two  weeks  ago,  with  the 
memorable  line,  "The  Dane  comes  up  like  thunder." 
He  had  invented  the  name  of  "Hooks"  for  George 
Wiltse  and  had  written  that  "Frank  Bowerman  runs 
the  bases  like  somebody  pulling  Grover  Cleveland 
in  a  rickshaw."  And  Peter  was  still  progressing. 
He  would  go  on,  years  hence,  to  make  the  most  of 
McGraw's  practice  of  starting  games  with  Rube 
Schauer  and  finishing  them  with  Ferdie  Schupp  by 
contriving  the  lead,  "It  never  Schauers  but  it 
Schupps."  Perhaps  he  had  prevision  enough  to 


96  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

realize  that  it  was  he,  Peter  Neale,  who  would 
eventually  ascribe  to  Jack  Dempsey  the  motto,  "Say 
it  with  cauliflowers"  and  write  after  a  Crimson  dis 
aster  on  the  Thames,  "Harvard's  most  perplexing 
race  problems  appear  to  be  crewish  and  Jewish." 

He  looked  at  the  sleeping  child  and  wondered  if 
there  were  any  leads  like  that  in  the  little  head. 
By  and  by,  of  course,  the  baby  would  grow  up  and 
in  some  newspaper  there  would  be  articles  under 
his  name.  Peter  would  like  to  see  the  articles  before 
he  was  willing  to  have  them  signed  "By  Peter  Neale." 
Every  now  and  then  somebody  wandered  into  his 
office  at  the  Bulletin  and  asked  him  to  use  his  good 
influences  with  the  managing  editor.  Peter  always 
said,  "Will  you  let  me  see  something  you've  writ 
ten."  Here  in  front  of  him  was  a  candidate  not 
only  for  a  job  but  for  his  job.  And  the  applicant 
had  nothing  to  show. 

It  was  a  hot  bright  Sunday  and  Kate  had  recom 
mended  that  the  baby  go  out.  The  carriage  was 
deplorable.  Peter  had  not  bothered  to  look  at  it 
before,  but  now  he  examined  it  and  found  it  wholly 
lacking  in  distinction.  It  could  not  be  that  all  the 
things  which  were  wrong  with  it  had  resulted  from 
his  falling  over  it  a  few  mornings  back.  That  had 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  97 

hurt  him  much  more  than  the  carriage.  The  paint 
was  splotchy  and  all  the  wheels  squeaked.  Kate 
must  have  seized  the  first  available  vehicle  in  the 
neighborhood.  What  with  that  carriage  and  his 
heavily  bandaged  head  he  felt  that  the  caravan 
which  he  was  about  to  conduct  would  be  disreput 
able.  The  numerous  chin  straps  which  held  the 
bandages  in  place  made  it  difficult  for  Peter  to  shave. 
In  order  to  avoid  that  difficulty  Peter  hadn't  shaved. 
He  only  hoped  that  nobody  in  the  Park  would  stop 
the  procession  and  ask  him  to  accept  a  quarter. 
Peter  practised  an  expression  of  scorn  in  front  of  a 
mirror  in  order  to  be  ready  for  some  such  contin 
gency.  Nature  had  endowed  him  with  a  loose  scalp. 
He  could  wiggle  both  ears,  together  or  separately. 
So  far  this  had  never  been  of  much  use  although 
he  found  that  it  helped  him  enormously  to  qualify 
as  a  nursery  entertainer.  But  there  was  another 
manoeuvre  which  he  used  habitually  and  successfully 
to  indicate  utter  disagreement  and  contempt.  He 
could  elevate  his  right  eyebrow  without  disturbing 
the  other.  This  never  failed  to  strike  terror  to  all 
observers.  Peter  had  that  so  well  in  hand  that  he 
needed  no  mirror  practice  to  perfect  it.  He  worked 
on  curling  his  lip,  a  device  which  was  new  to  him, 

7 


98          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

Combined  with  an  elevated  eyebrow  an  effect  was 
produced  ample  to  carry  off  the  handicaps  of  both 
carriage  and  bandages. 

Nevertheless,  he  felt  a  little  conspicuous  when  he 
started  for  the  Park.  And  pushing  a  carriage  was 
dull  work.  There  was  no  future  to  it,  no  competi 
tive  value,  no  opportunity  for  advancement.  One 
could  not  very  well  come  to  the  point  of  being  able 
to  say,  "I  can  wheel  a  carriage  a  little  bit  better  than 
anybody  else  in  New  York."  The  thing  was  with 
out  standards.  Of  all  outdoor  sports  this  was  the 
most  dreary  and  democratic.  But  in  spite  of  the 
ease  of  manipulation  he  was  under  the  impression 
that  a  carriage  required  constant  attention.  Quite 
by  accident  he  discovered  that  it  would  space  nicely 
between  shoves  if  he  happened  to  let  go  of  the 
handlebar.  This  led  to  the  creation  of  a  rather 
amusing  game.  Peter  called  it  putting  the  sixteen 
pound  carriage. 

Not  far  from  the  Sixty-fifth  Street  entrance  of 
the  Park  he  found  a  large  hill  and  for  a  moment  it 
was  clear  of  pedestrians.  Standing  at  the  foot  of 
this  hill  Peter  gave  the  carriage  a  violent  shove  and 
let  go.  Up  the  hill  it  sped  until  its  momentum  was 
exhausted  and  then  it  rolled  back  again.  The  game 


The  Boy  Grew  Older  99 

was  to  try  and  make  it  reach  the  top.  Peter  never 
succeeded  in  that  although  he  came  within  four 
feet  eight  inches  of  accomplishing  the  feat  which 
he  had  set  for  himself.  He  was  handicapped  by  the 
fact  that  he  did  not  quite  dare  to  put  all  his  back 
and  shoulders  into  the  preliminary  shove.  Indeed 
on  his  best  heave,  the  one  which  took  the  missile 
within  four  feet  eight  inches  of  the  top,  the  carriage 
careened  precariously.  More  than  that  it  almost  hit 
a  stout  woman  who  was  coming  down  the  hill.  She 
stopped  and  spoke  to  Peter.  "Haven't  you  got  any 
better  sense1  than  to  do  a  thing  like  that,"*she  said. 
'That  carriage  almost  upset.  I've  a,  good  mind  to 
follow  you  home  and  tell  the  father  of  that  baby 
some  of  the  things  you're  doing  with  his  child. 
Aren't  you 'ashamed  of  yourself,  a  grown  man  car 
rying  on  like  that.  And  on  Sunday  toot" 

Peter  didn't  want  her  to  follow  him  home  and  so 
he  merely  said,  "Yes,  mam,  I  won't  do  it  any  more." 

And  for  ^that  day  he  kept  his  word.  However, 
the  baby  did  not  seem  to  mind  much.  It  continued 
to  sleep.  Peter  pushed  the  carriage  aimlessly  about 
for  a  little  while,  never  letting  go  of  the  handlebar. 
He  felt  like  an  Atlantic  City  Negro  with  a  wheel 
chair  hired  for  the  day  by  a  tired  business  man. 


ioo         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

There  was  nobody  to  whom  he  could  talk.  The 
baby  had  slept  so  long  by  now  that  Peter  began  to 
worry  that  something  might  be  wrong  with  him. 
Bending  over  the  carriage  he  ascertained  that  the 
child  was  still  breathing.  He  wished  it  would  wake 
up.  Of  course  he  might  not  actually  be  company 
if  aroused  but  he  seemed  even  less  animated  when 
asleep. 

Perhaps  Christy  would  be  a  good  name  for  him. 
Christopher  Mathewson  Neale  had  a  fine  resound 
ing  swing  to  it.  Still  maybe  Matty  wouldn't  turn 
out  to  be  a  great  pitcher  after  all.  Peter  was  tre 
mendously  confident  about  him,  but  it  might  be  best 
to  wait  until  time  had  tested  him.  After  a  World's 
Series  or  something  like  that  one  could  be  absolutely 
certain.  No  good  taking  chances  until  then.  It 
was  still  within  the  bounds  of  possibility  that  Matty 
might  be  a  bloomer  and  it  would  hardly  be  fair  to 
name  the  child  after  somebody  in  the  Three  I 
League. 

Finding  a  tree  and  a  bench  Peter  sat  down  to 
continue  his  speculations.  How  about  a  newspaper 
name?  Greeley  Nealc  wouldn't  be  so  bad.  Yes,  it 
would.  Everybody  would  be  sure  to  make  it  Greasy 
Neale.  A  prizefight  name  offered  possibilities. 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          M>I 

Nelson  Neale,  for  instance,  had  alliteration.  Peter 
had  given  the  lightweight  a  name — the  Durable 
Dane  was  his  invention — and  it  seemed  no  more 
than  a  fair  exchange  to  take  his  in  return.  Still  he 
had  never  been  convinced  that  Nelson  was  a  really 
first  class  man.  He  had  neither  speed  nor  a  punch. 
It  was  just  stamina  which  carried  him  along.  The 
youngster  ought  not  to  go  through  life  head  down. 
Besides  a  name  like  that  would  serve  to  remind  Peter 
of  his  return  from  Goldfield  and  the  flight  of  Maria. 
Just  then  a  sound  came  from  the  carriage.  It  was 
a  gurgle.  Peter  pushed  back  the  hood.  The  baby 
looked  at  him  fixedly  and  Peter  fancied  that  there 
was  a  certain  trace  of  emotion  in  the  small  face. 
Surprise  seemed  to  be  indicated.  And  it  was  not 
altogether  agreeable  surprise  for  as  Peter  returned 
the  stare  the  baby's  right  eyebrow  went  up  and  the 
left  one  didn't. 

"God!"  said  Peter,  "he  is  Peter  Neale." 
But  there  must  be  more  ceremony  than  that. 
Peter  looked  around  to  see  that  he  and  the  baby  were 
alone.  Then  he  spoke  to  him  distinctly  although 
emotionally.  He  realized  now  that  his  intuition  had 
been  sound  when  he  had  said  way  back  weeks  ago 
at  the  Newspaper  Club.  "My  son  has  just  been 


102          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

born."  He  had  never  had  any  doubt  about  his 
physical  paternity  but  that  did  not  seem  important. 
Jt  was  spiritual  kinship  which  counted  and  an  eye 
brow  like  that  was  a  thing  of  the  spirit. 

"You're  my  son  all  right,"  said  Peter,  "and 
you're  going  to  have  my  name.  Peter  Neale,  that's 
your  name." 

He  thought  it  would  complicate  things  to  go  into 
the  question  of  whether  he  should  be  Peter  Neale, 
Jr.  or  Peter  Neale,  2nd.  The  Peter  Neale  was  the 
important  part  of  it.  "I  guess  maybe  you  can  do  a 
lot  more  with  that  name  than  I  have,  but  I've  made 
it  a  good  newspaper  name.  You  can  make  it  a 
better  one  maybe.  We'll  wait  and  see."  He  reached 
out  and  took  the  small  hand  of  Peter  Neale  and 
shook  it.  The  prayer  which  went  with  it  wras  silent. 
"O  God,  give  him  some  of  the  breaks  and  I  will." 
That  completed  the  christening.  It  was  all  that 
young  Peter  ever  got. 

The  red-headed  boy  up  the  block  who  had  con 
tributed  disturbing  ideas  in  other  fields  also  threw 
a  bombshell  into  Peter's  boyhood  theology.  "Can 
God  do  anything?"  was  his  catch  question.  "Of 
course  He  can,"  replied  Peter.  "Well,  I'll  just  bet 
you  a  million  billion  dollars  He  can't  make  a  trolley 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          103 

car  go  in  two  directions  at  the  same  time."  Peter 
didn't  see  how  He  could.  He  puzzled  over  the  prob 
lem  for  months  and  at  last  he  decided  that  maybe 
God  could  work  it  by  making  the  trolley  car  like  an 
elastic  so  that  it  could  be  stretched  up  town  and 
down  town  at  the  same  time.  It  was  not  an  entirely 
satisfactory  solution  of  the  problem.  If  a  passen 
ger  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  car  he  wouldn't  get 
any  place  at  all. 

But  for  the  moment  Peter  was  not  much  con 
cerned  with  the  potential  relationship  between  the 
Deity  and  young  Peter.  He  could  bide  his  time  and 
think  up  an  answer  for  the  day  when  the  child 
should  ask  him,  "Who's  God?"  The  immediate 
problem  was  what  place  he  should  fill  on  the  Bulletin. 
Eventually,  of  course,  he  would  conduct  the  column 
called,  "Looking  Them  Over  With  Peter  Neale." 
Already  there  were  thirty-one  papers  in  the  syndi 
cate  and  some  day  Peter  could  step  down  and  the 
column  would  still  be  "Looking  Them  Over  With 
Peter  Neale." 

It  would  be  pleasant  not  to  die  in  the  office  but 
to  have  ten  years  or  so  with  no  worries  as  to  whether 
Jim  Jeffries  could  have  beaten  John  L.  Sullivan  in 
his  prime.  And  he  didn't  want  to  go  on  forever 


104         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

writing  on  the  question  of  whether  more  nerve  was 
required  to  hole  a  ten  foot  putt  in  a  championship 
match  or  bring  down  a  halfback  on  the  five  yard  line. 
In  those  last  ten  years  he  would  have  all  the  fun 
of  reading  a  Peter  Neale  column  without  having  to 
write  it.  The  job  had  come  to  him  by  the  merest 
chance.  But  young  Peter  could  be  trained  from  the 
beginning  for  the  work.  "I'll  start  his  education 
right  now,"  Peter  resolved  and  then  he  looked  at 
the  baby  and  decided  that  there  didn't  seem  to  be 
anything  specific  which  could  be  done  immediately. 
Still  an  early  start  was  possible.  Long  division 
ought  to  be  easy  and  interesting  for  a  child  who 
knew  that  it  was  something  used  in  computing  bat 
ting  averages.  Of  course  young  Peter  would  re 
ceive  an  excellent  general  education.  There  wasn't 
any  reason  why  a  sporting  writer  shouldn't  be  a 
person  of  well  rounded  culture.  Sometimes  Peter 
regretted  that  his  Harvard  career  had  lasted  only 
a  year.  Probably  his  sporting  poems  might  have 
been  better  if  he  had  been  able  to  go  on  and  take  that 
course  in  versification.  Fine  arts  and  history  would 
not  be  a  waste  of  time. 

There  was  never  any  telling  when  some  stray  scrap 
of  information  Could  be  pressed  into  service  for  a 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          105 

sporting  story.  For  instance  Peter  had  been  struck 
by  that  quotation  from  Walter  Pater  about  the 
Mona  Lisa  which  he  had  happened  upon  in  a  Sun 
day  newspaper  story.  Two  years  later  he  had  been 
able  to  use  it  about  Ed  Dunkhurst,  the  human 
freight  car,  by  paraphrasing  the  line  to  read,  "Here 
is  the  head  upon  which  all  the  jabs  of  the  world 
have -come  and  the  eyelids  are  a  little  weary." 

The  quotation  had  given  distinction  to  the  story. 
Sporting  writing  ought  to  be  just  as  distinguished 
as  a  man  could  make  it.  The  days  of  the  lowbrow 
commentator  were  disappearing.  Young  Peter 
might  very  well  carry  on  and  expand  the  tradition 
which  he  had  begun.  To  be  sure,  there  wasn't  any 
hurry  about  giving  him  the  job.  Twenty-five  years 
more  for  himself  would  be  about  right.  By  that 
time  young  Peter  would  be  just  twenty-five  years 
and  three  weeks  old.  A  year  or  so  of  general  work 
on  the  city  staff  of  the  Bulletin  might  be  good  for 
him.  Indeed  anything  on  the  newspaper  would  do 
for  a  start.  That  was,  anything  real.  Book  critics 
and  people  like  that  weren't  really  newspaper  men. 
On  his  fiftieth  birthday,  perhaps,  Peter  would  go 
to  the  managing  editor  and  say,  "I'm  through  and 
there's  just  one  thing  I  want  from  the  Bulletin.  I 


io6      "  The  Boy  Grew  Older 

think  it's  only  fair  that  you  should  let  me  name  my 


And  the  managing  editor  would  say,  "Why,  of 
course,  Neale,  who  is  it  to  be  ?" 

"His  name  is  Peter  Neale." 

Naturally,  the  managing  editor  would  express 
some  regrets.  He  would  pay  a  warm  tribute  to  the 
worth  and  career  of  Peter  Neale,  at  the  end  of  which 
Peter  would  remark,  "I'm  glad  you  feel  that  way 
about  it,  sir."  After  that  formality  the  substitution 
would  be  accepted.  The  line  of  Neale  would  remain 
unbroken. 

All  this  gazing  into  the  future  cheered  up  Peter 
so  much  that  he  started  out  very  gaily  that  after 
noon  to  compose  a  column  and  mind  the  baby  at  the 
same  time.  Unfortunately  the  five  o'clock  feeding 
time  came  around  just  as  he  was  getting  into  the 
swing  of  an  article  on  the  advantages  of  being  left- 
handed  for  the  purposes  of  baseball.  Somebody  had 
told  him  that  the  Bible  had  something  to  say  on  the 
subject.  Peter  found  it  in  the  twentieth  chapter  of 
Judges  where  he  read:  "The  inhabitants  of  Gibeah 
.  .  .  Among  all  this  people  there  were  seven  hun 
dred  chosen  men  lefthanded;  everyone  could  sling 
stones  at  an  hair-breadth,  and  not  miss." 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          107 

That  was  just  meat  for  Peter. 

'The  average  southpaw  of  today,"  he  began, 
"may  have  even  more  speed  than  the  inhabitants 
of  old  Gibeah  but  his  control  isn't  so  good."  Before 
he  could  develop  the  theme  further  young  Peter  be 
gan  to  cry.  When  searched  nothing  seemed  wrong 
with  him  but  then  Peter  remembered  about  the  bottle. 
He  was  already  half  an  hour  late.  The  milk  was 
mixed  and  ready  in  individual  containers  in  the  ice 
box  but  Kate  had  told  him  to  be  sure  and  have  it 
warm.  Peter  had  never  warmed  anything  in  his 
life.  After  some  thought  he  decided  that  he  could 
put  water  into  a  pot  and  heat  it  and  then  dip  the 
bottle  in.  He  waited  until  the  water  was  boiling. 
But  the  next  problem  was  more  difficult.  What  did 
Kate  mean  by  warm?  How  hot  could  the  child 
stand  it?  His  first  three  estimates  were  wrong. 
Young  Peter  spit  out  the  milk  and  yelled.  It  was 
annoying  for  the  mixture  was  hardly  steaming. 

Cooling  it  seemed  ever  so  much  more  difficult  than 
heating.  Peter  stood  the  bottle  on  the  window  ledge 
and  waved  it  over  his  head  and  blew  on  it  with 
out  much  appreciable  effect  upon  the  temperature. 
More  than  half  an  hour  was  wasted  before  the  child 
consented  to  accept  the  milk.  When  Peter  went 


io8          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

back  to  his  column  about  lefthanders  the  spirit  and 
swing  of  the  thing  had  disappeared.  He  tried  to 
write  a  poem  to  Rube  Waddell  called,  "The  Great 
Gibean"  and  couldn't  find  any  rhymes.  The  no 
tion  limped  home. 

Kate's  ten  o'clock  turned  out  to  be  past  midnight. 
Shortly  before  her  return  the  baby  went  to  sleep. 

"How  did  you  find  your  niece's  child?"  asked 
Peter. 

"Oh,  she's  fine,"  said  Kate.  "She's  a  girl.  A 
fine  little  girl,  but  she's  not  a  patch  on  himself." 

"He's  got  a  name  now,"  said  Peter.  "We  won't 
have  to  be  saying  'him,'  and  'it'  and  'the  baby*  any 
more.  His  name's  Peter  Neale." 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  name  Peter  did  not  stick  to  the  baby  long. 
Old  Peter  noticed  that  Kate  never  used  it.  Her 
first  move  was  to  modify  it  into  Petey,  then  Pete  and 
suddenly  it  became  an  unmistakable  Pat.  "What 
have  you  got  against  the  name  Peter  ?"  he  asked  her. 

"It's  not  for  me  to  be  criticising  a  saint  in 
Heaven,"  answered  Kate  piously. 

"I  won't  tell  on  you.  Why  didn't  you  like  him, 
He  was  a  good  man,  wasn't  he?" 

"A  good  man,  is  it? — begging  your  pardon  and 
that  of  the  blessed  saints  in  Heaven — didn't  he  deny 
the  name  of  our  blessed  Lord  and  Him  seized  by 
the  dirty  Jews?" 

Peter  had  forgotten  about  it  but  he  found  the 
striking  story  in  the  Gospel  according  to  St.  Mark. 

"  'And  thou  also  wast  with  Jesus  of  Nazareth/ 
But  he  denied,  saying — 'I  know  not,  neither  under 
stand  I  what  thou  sayest.' ' 

Of  course,  it  was  not  admirable  conduct,  but 
Peter  could  understand  and  sympathize  with  the 

109 


no         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

motives  of  his  namesake.  He  himself,  he  felt, 
would  have  done  much  the  same  thing.  Cowardice 
was  not  the  only  factor  which  prompted  the  denial. 
The  incident  was  more  complicated  than  that. 
Maybe  Peter  didn't  want  to  make  a  scene.  If  he 
had  said  yes  he  was  a  Christian  everybody  in  the 
palace  of  the  High  Priest  would  have  felt  self- 
conscious  and  uncomfortable.  It  might  have  been 
necessary  for  some  one  to  change  the  subject. 
Saying  "No"  made  things  easier  for  everybody. 
Courage  may  be  admirable  but  tact  is  not  altogether 
contemptible.  Peter  Neale  usually  agreed  with 
people  when  he  elt  that  they  wanted  him  to. 

Still,  he  hoped  hat  his  son  would  move  through 
the  world  with  a  freer  and  more  courageous 
mood  and  the  next  time  Kate  called  the  baby  Pat, 
Peter  did  not  object  much.  He  merely  said : 

"I  don't  think  that  name's  much  of  an  improve 
ment,  Kate." 

"And  why  not?" 

"Well,  what  did  this  St.  Patrick  of  yours  ever 
do?" 

"The  blessed  St.  Patrick  that  drove  the  snakes 
out  of  Ireland !" 

"Yes,  but  he  left  the  Irish." 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          in 

Nevertheless  for  all  practical  purposes  little  Peter 
became  Pat  from  that  time  on.  Kate  got  most 
things  which  she  wanted.  Peter  lived  in  constant 
fear  of  her  suddenly  quitting  her  job.  He  dreaded 
the  task  of  invading  the  agencies  in  search  of  a  new 
nurse  and  there  did  not  seem  to  be  any  other 
feasible  arrangement. 

About  three  months  after  he  assumed  the  duties 
of  Sunday  father  he  did  contemplate  dimly  a  move 
which  might  well  have  revolutionized  the  existence 
of  himself  and  Pat  and  Kate  as  well.  He  met 
Margaret  quite  by  chance.  Pat  had  colic  in  the 
Park.  Of  course,  Peter  didn't  k*  ^w  it  was  colic. 
He  only  knew  that  the  child  scr^umed  in  a  manner 
more  violent  than  any  he  had  yet  known.  His 
inability  to  handle  the  situation  was  so  obvious  that 
Margaret  who  was  sitting  with  her  four-year-old 
charge  on  a  bench  nearby  came  over  and  showed 
him  how  to  roll  the  baby.  After  Pat  had  been 
rolled  sufficiently  he  recovered  but  Margaret  and 
Peter  did  not  part  company  immediately. 

"You're  a  funny  one  to  be  sending  out  with  a 
baby,"  said  Margaret. 

"I'm  not  sent  out  with  him.  I  go  out  with  him. 
I'm  his  father." 


ii2         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

Peter  realized  afterwards  that  his  admission, 
indeed  his  boast,  of  not  belonging  to  the  employed 
classes  was  largely  responsible  for  the  blight  which 
lay  under  the  surface  of  his  relationship  to 
Margaret  and  finally  led  to  tragedy.  There  were 
many  meetings  following  the  afternoon  of  the  colic. 
For  a  month  or  so  the  pretense  was  kept  up  that 
these  were  merely  accidental,  but  finally  one  Sun 
day  Peter  and  Pat  and  Margaret  and  Bobby,  the  boy 
she  was  in  charge  of,  were  driven  under  an  archway 
by  a  thunderstorm.  There  was  so  much  thunder 
that  Margaret  grew  very  frightened.  Peter  could 
think  of  nothing  better  to  do  than  put  an  arm  around 
her.  He  realized  an  obligation.  Hadn't  she  rolled 
Pat  out  of  colic?  By  and  by  there  was  lightning 
and  Peter  kissed  her.  After  that  they  met  by 
acknowledged  premeditation  every  Sunday — close  to 
the  entrance  of  the  tunnel. 

Peter  found  it  almost  as  difficult  to  talk  to  Mar 
garet  as  to  Pat,  but  she  was  better  company.  The 
long  Sundays  went  faster  when  he  could  sit  holding 
hands  in  some  moderately  obscure  corner  of  the 
park.  Margaret  was  the  sort  of  person  who  didn't 
seem  to  expect  much  in  the  way  of  conversation. 
All  she  required  was  an  occasional  answer  to  some 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          113 

simple  hypothetical  question.  These  were  generally 
somewhat  similar  in  character.  Did  he  think  (she 
never  reached  the  stage  of  calling  him  Peter)  that 
a  rich  man  could  marry  a  poor  girl  and  be  happy? 
Did  he  realize  that  a  girl  could  be  a  child's  nurse 
and  a  lady  at  the  same  time  ?  Wasn't  it  a  fact  that 
widowers  led  a  desperately  lonely  and  unhappy  life? 
Peter  happened  to  have  adopted  the  easy  expedient 
of  disposing  of  Maria  by  means  of  a  fever. 

Margaret  was  unmistakably  a  fool,  but  Peter 
thought  her  rather  an  appealing  one.  She  seemed 
pretty  and  he  knew  that  she  was  expert  in  handling 
children.  The  things  required  by  Bobby  and  Pat 
never  gave  her  more  than  the  briefest  trouble.  And 
then  as  Peter  was  becoming  more  and  more  liberal 
about  unintelligence  the  fatal  Sunday  arrived. 
They  had  lingered  a  little  longer  in  the  Park  than 
usual.  Bobby  in  obedience  to  the  usual  command, 

"Now  run  away  and  play,  Bobby,  and  don't  get  your 

• 

clothes  dirty,"  had  done  so.  Suddenly  he  came 
running  back  across  the  meadow  as  fast  as  his  legs 
would  carry  him  straight  to  Margaret. 

"I  want  to  make  a  river/'  he  said. 

"Shush!  Bobby,"  answered  Margaret  in  a  low 
voice. 


ii4         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

"But  I  want  to  make  a  river,"  repeated  Bobby, 
even  more  insistently. 

Margaret,  her  face  flaming  scarlet,  got  up  and 
seized  the  child  roughly  by  the  wrist.  As  she  dragged 
him  away  he  screamed.  Peter  heard  her  say,  "Aren't 
you  ashamed  of  yourself !"  Presently  from  out  of 
the  bushes  in  addition  to  frantic  screaming  there 
came  the  unmistakable  sound  of  a  child  being 
spanked. 

When  Margaret  returned  to  the  bench,  if  indeed 
she  did,  Peter  had  gone.  He  saw  her  once  weeks 
afterwards  at  a  distance,  but  they  never  talked 
again.  This  time  it  was  Peter  who  did  the  blush 
ing  for  the  more  he  thought  about  the  whole  busi 
ness  the  more  degraded  he  found  himself.  He  had 
come  within  at  least  an  appreciable  distance  of  selling 
his  soul  for  a  colic  cure.  A  disgusting  snip  of  a  per 
son  had  moved  between  him  and  those  bitter  but 
glamorous  memories  of  Maria  Algarez.  Maybe 
Maria  did  ruin  all  his  hope  of  happiness  and  yet  he 
knew  that  but  for  Maria  he  would  never  have  made 
up  enough  ground  in  his  pursuit  of  life  to  learn  the 
great  truth  that  propriety  is  one  of  the  vices. 


CHAPTER  XII 

PAT  grew  but  it  was  slow  work.  Kate  would  speak 
of  an  ounce  as  if  it  were  some  silver  trophy  which 
the  child  had  won.  Like  Samuel  Butler  her  admira 
tion  was  unbounded  for  the  intelligence  which  mani 
fested  itself  in  the  process  of  developing  bone  and 
muscle  and  tissue.  Peter  was  not  inclined  to  give 
the  child  any  credit  for  this.  If  you  poured  water 
on  a  lawn,  grass  sprang  up.  All  the  credit  belonged 
to  the  gardener  and  Pat  became  bigger  and  bigger 
through  no  obvious  efforts  of  his  own  but  merely  be 
cause  Peter  and  Kate  plied  him  with  milk  and  some 
times  carrots.  Raising  grass  was  easier.  The 
gardener  didn't  have  to  deal  with  a  moving  target 
and  he  could  administer  water  quite  irrespective  of 
the  wishes  of  the  grass. 

Of  course,  there  were  moments  when  Pat  dis 
played  intelligence  but  it  was  of  the  most  rudimen 
tary  sort.  When  he  was  about  six  months  old  Peter 
found  that  if  he  put  a  finger  in  front  of  him  Pat 
would  try  to  bite  it.  Sometimes  he  laughed  but 

"5 


ii6         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

only  at  his  own  jokes.  At  seven  months  he  began 
to  crawl.  This  was  moderately  interesting  but  it 
doubled  Peter's  Sunday  responsibilities  and  even 
affected  his  literary  style.  Short  paragraphs 
appeared  more  frequently  than  ever  before  in  the 
Looking  Them  Over  column.  Longer  flights  were 
subject  to  interruption  as  Peter  had  to  put  Pat 
away  from  places  such  as  the  steam  radiator  or  the 
gas  logs.  It  was  no  longer  even  possible  to  leave 
safety  razor  blades  about. 

Eventually  somebody  told  Peter  to  buy  a  stockade 
and  he  did  so.  The  arrangement  was  a  collapsible 
fence  which  could  be  set  up  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor  to  imprison  the  child  and  curtail  its  wander 
ings.  The  only  trouble  lay  in  the  fact  that  it  was 
much  too  collapsible.  In  a  month  or  so  Pat  was 
able  to  pull  himself  to  his  feet  by  holding  on  to  the 
rail  and  after  a  few  violent  tugs  the  whole  con 
traption  would  come  down  on  top  of  him. 

And  yet  when  Kate  came  to  Peter  and  said  that 
her  niece,  the  one  in  Jamaica,  was  looking  for  a 
part  time  job  and  would  take  care  of  Pat  on  Sun 
days  for  $3  a  week,  Peter  refused  the  offer.  He 
never  knew  quite  why.  Somehow  or  other  his  Sun- 
slay  fatherhood  had  become  part  of  a  routine.  Per* 


The  Boy  Grew  Older         117 

haps  he  would  have  felt  foot-loose  without  it.  He 
merely  told  Kate  that  $3  was  too  much.  And  one 
night  when  Pat  was  suddenly  assailed  by  croup 
Peter  almost  worried  himself  sick.  It  was  a  short 
illness,  but  terrific  while  it  lasted.  The  child  seemed 
to  be  strangling.  The  cough  which  racked  it  was 
deep  and  in  its  agony  the  child  took  on  maturity. 
Against  death  it  fought  back.  Peter  was  moved  not 
only  because  this  was  his  son  but  because  here  was 
a  fellow  human  being  grappling  with  the  common 
enemy.  He  waited  in  the  hall  outside  while  Dr. 
Clay  was  making  his  examination.  There  he  had 
more  room  to  walk  up  and  down. 

Presently  the  doctor  came  out  and,  taking  Peter's 
arm,  led  him  to  the  front  of  the  flat.  'The  child's 
very  ill,"  he  said,  "I'm  going  to  send  for  a  trained 


nurse." 


Pat  cried  his  best,  but  every  now  and  then  this 
would  be  broken  by  the  fearful  cough.  It  was  like 
the  baying  of  an  animal.  A  spasm  from  the  back 
room  interrupted  Dr.  Clay.  "It  almost  sounds  as  if 
there  was  another  person  in  that  room,"  he  said. 
"I'm  going  back." 

Peter  knew  who  that  thing  or  person  was.  He 
went  with  Clay  and  lifted  Pat  out  of  his  crib  and  held 


ii8          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

him  in  his  arms.  This  gave  him  a  curious  feeling 
that  he  was  doing  something;  as  if  he  were  trying 
to  throw  his  body  between  Pat  and  someone  else. 
In  a  dim  way  he  felt  that  he  and  Pat  and  the  other 
one,  all  three,  were  running  down  a  football  field. 
He  must  keep  close  to  Pat  and  block  off  the  tackier. 

"Part  of  my  tiredness  it  goes  into  your  arm." 
Maria  had  said  that.  And  now  Peter  wanted  to 
give  something  of  his  own  strength  to  Pat  against 
the  fury  of  the  attack.  It  did  not  seem  fantastic. 
There  was  a  current  in  the  contact.  The  man  had 
lied  when  he  said  Peter  and  Maria  were  one.  That 
couldn't  be  done.  Men  and  women  were  grown 
people,  individuals,  all  finished,  but  this  was  only 
a  little  person.  He  was  part  of  Peter.  Father  and 
son  were  one.  He  was  holding  Pat  so  tightly  that 
nobody  could  take  him  away.  His  prayer  was  all  the 
more  fervent  from  the  fact  that  he  did  not  believe  in 
God.  He  had  to  create  God.  "Don't  let  him  die. 
Don't  let  him  die."  God  began  to  take  form  in  his 
mind.  God  was  Maria.  She  was  gone  and  not 
gone.  To  her  he  did  not  need  to  make  a  prayer. 
"Maria"  was  enough. 

The  doorbell  rang  and  Dr.  Clay  answered  it.  He 
brought  Miss  Haine  back.  "I  guess  you  know  this 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          119 

baby/'  he  said.  "We've  got  to  make  him  well." 
The  nurse  spoke  to  Peter  and  set  about  fixing  a 
croup  kettle  beside  the  crib.  The  fumes  filled  the 
room.  It  was  a  pleasant  smell.  "Better  lay  him 
down  in  his  crib,  now,"  said  the  Doctor,  touching 
Peter  on  the  shoulder,  "so  he  can  get  the  benefit  of 
this.  I  think  he's  a  little  better  already." 

Peter  knew  that  he  was.  Pat  was  no  longer 
gasping  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  was  asleep.  For 
a  time  Peter  sat  beside  the  bed.  The  child's  breath 
ing  was  regular  and  his  cheek  was  cool  to  the  touch. 
"Why,  he's  fine  now,"  Miss  Haine  told  him.  "Yo 
go  to  bed.  In  the  morning  you  won't  even  know 
that  he's  been  sick." 

There  was  no  trace  of  the  shadow  upon  Pat 
next  day.  Peter  was  the  haggard  one.  Something 
had  gone  out  of  him  during  the  night  as  he  held  Pat 
in  his  arms.  Father  and  child  were  doing  as  well 
as  could  be  expected. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Ax  the  age  of  eleven  months  and  eight  days  Pat 
walked  for  the  first  time.  Peter  thought  he  might 
have  been  considerate  enough  to  have  chosen  a  Sun 
day.  His  first  tooth  came  on  a  Sunday,  but  that 
wasn't  any  fun.  Besides,  it  couldn't  be  tied  exactly 
to  some  particular  day  and  minute  the  way  that  the 
walking  could.  Nor  was  there  any  gaiety  about  it. 
However,  Peter  did  not  quite  miss  the  walking  for 
he  came  in  time  to  see  the  last  couple  of  hundred 
yards. 

It  was  a  rainy  Saturday  and  Peter  happened  home 
early.  Kate  met  him  in  the  hall  with  a  finger  at  her 
lips.  "He's  walking." 

She  seemed  to  feel  that  if  anybody  said  anything 
about  it  the  child  would  probably  grow  self-con 
scious  and  collapse.  There  appeared  to  be  a  certain 
sagacity  in  that.  It  was  not  an  experiment  but  an 
adventure.  One  step  led  to  another.  At  terrific 
speed  Pat  went  round  and  round  the  room.  He 
might  have  been  Bobby  Walthour  trying  to  steal  a 

120 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          121 

lap  in  a  six  day  race.  Kate  and  Peter  watched  him 
breathlessly  from  behind  the  curtains  of  the  living- 
room. 

"How  long  has  this  been  going  on?"  Peter 
wanted  to  know. 

"It's  these  ten  minutes." 

Peter  pulled  out  his  gold  stop  watch  and  created 
thereby  a  psychic  crisis.  Perhaps  Pat  felt  that  his 
amateur  standing  was  in  jeopardy.  At  any  rate  he 
tripped  on  the  edge  of  a  rug,  almost  turned  a  somer 
sault,  blacked  his  eye  and  cried  for  half  an  hour. 

He  did  not  even  attempt  to  walk  again  for  a  week. 
After  that  it  became  habitual.  Up  to  this  time 
Peter  had  never  said  much  to  anybody  about  his  son. 
He  did  not  talk  to  the  men  at  the  office  about  the 
child.  There  wouldn't  be  any  sense  in  interrupting 
Charlie  Hall  in  the  middle  of  a  story  about  city 
politics  with,  "My  son's  got  two  teeth."  They  were 
all  busy  men  and  it  was  not  conceivable  that  they 
would  care  how  much  Pat  Neale  weighed. 

Walking  was  a  little  different.  Maybe  it  wasn't 
exactly  a  first  page  story  but  still  Peter  wanted  to 
tell  somebody  about  it.  For  the  first  time  he  was 
disposed  to  show  off  Pat — in  person.  Of  course 
eleven  months  and  eights  days  wasn't  a  record 


122         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

Peter  would  have  to  look  into  that  and  find  out  the 
best  accepted  performance.  He  remembered  being 
told  that  his  own  brother  had  walked  at  eight  months 
but  he  had  no  means  of  knowing  whether  or  not  that 
was  authentic. 

The  desire  to  confide  in  somebody  eventually  took 
Peter  around  to  a  stage  door,  though  not  the  one  at 
the  end  of  the  alley.  From  a  Sunday  graphic 
section  he  had  noticed  that  Vonnie  Bandana  was 
playing  in  a  musical  show  called  "Harvest  Moon." 
Vonnie  Bandana  wasn't  really  her  name.  The 
caption  said  Vonnie  Ryan  and  Peter  was  sure  it  was 
the  same  girl.  Evidently  the  Eight  Bandana 
Sisters  had  gone  the  way  of  Brook  Farm  and 
Halcyon  Hall  and  many  another  experiment  in  co 
operation.  Vonnie  knew  him  all  right. 

"You're  the  man  that  married  Maria  Algarez," 
she  said. 

"Yes,  but  she's  gone  away." 

"I'm  sorry." 

"That's  all  right.  It  was  a  long  time  ago. 
Almost  a  year  now.  She  was  a  good  dancer, 
wasn't  she?" 

"Maria,  oh,  yes,  she  could  dance.  I  wondered 
what  became  of  her." 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          123 

"I  don't  know  that.  I  haven't  heard  from  her 
at  all.  I  think  she's  abroad." 

"Have  you  seen  our  show?" 

"No,  I  just  happened  to  notice  your  picture  in  the 
Bulletin  last  Sunday." 

"Did  you?  Wasn't  that  smart  of  you?  I've  got 
a  part  in  this.  Lines  and  everything.  I  sing  a 
song.  You  know  I  don't  sing  it  much.  Just  one 
verse  and  the  chorus  and  then  I  dance  it.  The 
dance  is  all  right." 

Peter  and  Vonnie  had  been  slowly  walking  away 
from  the  theatre  towards  Broadway  while  they 
carried  on  this  discussion  and  when  they  reached 
the  avenue  Vonnie  stopped. 

"Are  you  going  my  way?  I  go  up  to  a  Hundred 
and  Sixty-eighth  street.  Just  a  little  this  side  of 
Albany." 

"Well,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  was  wondering  if 
maybe  you  wouldn't  come  out  and  have  supper  with 
me.  I  just  happened  to  be  going  by  the  theatre  and 
I  stopped  around  and  thought  I  might  run  into  you." 

"Listen,"  said  Vonnie.  "I'll  have  supper  with 
you,  but  don't  pull  any  more  of  that  'I  just  happened 
to  be  going  by  the  theatre.'  That's  awful.  You 
ought  to  say  you've  been  planning  to  come  and  see 


124         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

me  for  a  week  and  came  all  the  way  in  from  New 
Rochelle  just  special.  You  don't  know  anything 
about  women,  do  you  ?" 

"I  guess  I  don't,"  said  Peter  very  soberly. 

"Oh,  I  am  sorry,"  Vonnie  laid  her  hand  on  his 
arm.  "I  didn't  mean  anything  by  that.  Forget  it 
You're  all  right  even  if  I  don't  remember  your  name. 
Did  you  ever  tell  it  to  me  ?" 

"My  name's  Peter  Neale." 

"You're  not  the  Peter  Neale  that  writes  in  the 
Bulletin,  are  you?" 

"Yes,  I  do  a  sporting  column.  That  looking  'em 
over  stuff." 

"I've  been  looking  for  you.  Do  you  know  I 
almost  wrote  you  a  letter.  Where  do  you  get  that 
stuff  about  Sandow  Mertes  being  a  more  valuable 
man  than  George  Browne?" 

"Browne  can't  hit  lefthanders." 

"That's  the  bunk.  You  and  the  rest  of  the  sport 
ing  writers  keep  pulling  that  stuff  about  him  and  of 
course  he  'can't.  Suppose  there  was  somebody 
standing  in  the  wings  every  night  just  before  I 
came  on,  yelling  at  me,  'Vonnie,  you  can't  dance/ 
do  you  suppose  I  could  go  on  and  do  that  song  for 
a  cent?  Of  course  I  couldn't.  You  and  the  rest 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          125 

of  you,  you're  just  ruining  this  fellow.  The  best 
looking  young  outfielder  I've  seen  in  ten  years.  Why 
he  could  run  up  a  hill  faster  than  Mertes  could  roll 
down  one." 

"You  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,"  said 
Peter.  It  was  the  boldest  speech  he  had  ever  made 
to  a  woman  and  he  did  it  without  turning  a  hair. 
Vonnie  was  wrong.  George  Browne  couldn't  hit 
lefthanders.  Before  he  took  her  home  Vonnie  had 
arranged  to  go  with  him  to  the  Polo  Grounds  the 
next  day  and  to  come  and  see  the  baby  on  Sunday. 

"Here,"  she  said  as  he  was  turning  away  from  the 
door  of  her  apartment,  "you've  got  a  kiss  coming  to 
you.  When  you  live  up  as  far  as  One  Hundred  and 
Sixty-eighth  Street  you've  got  to  do  at  least  that 
much  for  any  fellow  that  takes  you  home." 

"And  say,  listen,"  said  Vonnie,  just  before  she 
closed  the  door,  "next  month  I'm  going  to  move  to 
Two  Hundred  and  Forty-second  Street." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

VONNIE  came  to  the  flat  the  next  Sunday.  The 
moment  might  have  embarrassed  Peter  if  it  had 
been  anybody  else. 

But  Vonnie  had  such  an  imperious  and  lofty  way 
of  rising  above  all  things  traditionally  embarrassing 
to  Peter  and  snooting  down  at  them  that  she  carried 
him  with  her.  At  least  part  way. 

"Why  haven't  you  got  the  young  Giant  in  his  ball 
park  over  there,"  said  Vonnie  pointing  to  the 
Stockade. 

"I'm  changing  him." 

"No  game,"  said  Vonnie,  "wet  grounds." 

"Get  out  of  that.  Never  had  a  baby  in  my  life," 
she  continued,  briskly  rapping  her  knuckles  on  the 
woodwork  above  her  head,  "but  I  can't  be  worse  at 
that  job  than  you  are." 

She  pushed  Peter  away,  but  did  not  begin  on  the 
business  in  hand  immediately.  "He's  a  good  kid. 
A  fine  husky  kid.  I  know  now  why  you  asked  me 

126 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          127 

here.  You  figured  if  I  wanted  one  for  myself  you'd 
let  me  know  where  to  apply." 

"Never  mind  the  compliments,"  said  Peter. 
"Change  his  diapers." 

Vonnie  had  brought  the  new  freedom  into  his 
life. 

"No  doubt  about  his  being  yours,"  she  went  on. 
"Everything  up  to  the  chin  is  you — of  course  I'm 
just  guessing — but  Maria  left  him  those  eyes  and 
that  nose.  Maybe  she  left  him  more  than  that. 
He's  marked  for  the  show  business.  You  might  as 
well  make  up  your  mind  to  that." 

"He's  going  to  be  a  newspaper  man,"  cut  in  Peter 
sharply. 

"Oh,  I  see.  Got  it  all  fixed.  If  he  begins  to  bust 
out  singing  or  playing  the  piano  or  something  you 
won't  let  him.  That's  it,  isn't  it?" 

"I'm  going  to  shape  him  in  that  direction." 

"Just  shape  him,  hey  ?  Boy,  didn't  you  ever  bust 
bang  into  the  artistic  temperament?  I  played  a 
season  once  with  William  Faversham.  Shape  him  ? 
You  can't  beat  him  out  of  it  with  a  club.  I  don't 
know  yet  what  way  he's  going  to  jump  but  I  want 
to  put  down  a  little  bet  this  kid  of  yours  is  going  to 
be  some  kind  of  an  artist."  • 


128         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

"Don't  keep  saying  that.  I  tell  you  he's  coming 
on  the  Bulletin.  His  name's  Peter  Neale." 

"You  could  name  him  Rosenberg  and  that 
wouldn't  make  him  a  pawnbroker." 

"But  this  is  in  his  blood  just  like  in  mine.  He 
can't  help  himself.  He's  just  got  to  be  a  news 
paper  man." 

"All  right  we  won't  fight  about  it.  You  say  he's 
going  to  a  newspaper  man  and  I  tell  you  he's  going 
to  be  an  artist.  Maybe  he  won't  be  anything  but  a 
moving  picture  actor." 

Peter  saw  Vonnie  frequently  throughout  the 
summer.  She  went  to  the  ball  games  with  him 
almost  every  afternoon  except  matinee  days.  The 
dispute  about  George  Browne  and  Sandow  Mertes 
persisted.  There  could  be  no  question  but  that 
Browne  had  the  speed.  Even  when  he  hit  straight 
to  an  infielder  it  took  a  fast  throw  to  nail  him  at  first. 
But  Peter  didn't  like  him  because  his  cap  almost 
always  fell  off  whenever  he  beat  out  a  slow  roller. 
Somebody  would  have  to  carry  it  down  to  first  for 
him  and  while  Browne  was  waiting  he  had  a  trick 
of  bending  his  head  back  and  shaking  his  long  hair 
out  of  his  eyes. 

"He  looks  like  a  Goddamn  violinist,"  said  Peter. 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          129 

"Yes/'  replied  Vonnie,  "and  your  friend  Mertes 
looks  like  a  piccolo  player.  Do  you  know  the  story 
about  the  piccolo  player?" 

"Not  in  the  press  box,"  interrupted  Peter  fear 
fully.  He  felt  obliged  to  interrupt  Vonnie  a  good 
deal.  She  was  much  given  to  tantalizing  him  by 
beginning  in  a  loud  clear  voice,  "It  seems  there  was 
a  travelling  salesman  came  to  a  hotel,"  or  "This 
fellow,  you  see,  started  to  take  his  girl  out  for  a 
ride." 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  it,"  Peter  would  say  half 
in  jest  and  half  hoping  to  be  effectual 

"But  it's  a  nice  story." 

"It  isn't  a  nice  story  or  it  wouldn't  begin  that 
way"  was  the  agreed  formula  for  Peter's  reply, 
whereupon  Vonnie  would  disturb  his  gravity  and 
dignity  by  digging  him  in  the  ribs  with  her  elbow. 
Another  favorite  device  of  hers  was  sedulously  to 
brush  an  imaginary  spot  on  Peter's  coat  lapel  and 
when  he  looked  down  bring  up  her  hand  and  flip 
him  under  the  nose.  Peter  never  seemed  to  re 
member  not  to  look  down.  Perhaps  he  liked  to 
have  his  nose  flipped. 

"It  isn't  necessary,"  he  would  object,  "for  every 
body  around  here  to  know  you're  a  chorus  girl." 


130         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

"Chorus  girl,  nothing.  I  got  the  song  hit  of  the 
piece.  'Any  little  thing  for  you  dear,  any  little 
thing  for  you,' '  Vonnie  indicated  the  tempo  by 
scruffing  her  feet  against  the  concrete  floor  of  the 
press  box. 

"Cut  it  out.     Pay  attention  to  the  game," 

Sometimes  the  admonition  was  unnecessary.  The 
day  George  Browne  took  a  real  cut  at  the  ball  and 
banged  it  over  the  ropes  in  right  field  Vonnie  hopped 
into  a  chair  and  shouted,  "The  blessed  lamb!  Oh, 
you  Georgie  boy!  Watch  that  kid  go.  Look  at 
him,  Peter,  he  runs  just  like  my  Michael." 

Michael  was  Vonnie's  white  dog,  said  to  be  a 
Highland  terrier.  When  Peter  took  Vonnie  home  to 
One  Hundred  and  Sixty-eighth  Street  it  had  become 
the  custom  for  him  to  wait  down  in  the  street  while 
she  got  Michael  and  took  him  a  turn  around  the 
block  before  saying  good  night  to  Peter.  Vonnie 
had  a  good  deal  to  say  about  Michael  from  time  to 
time,  which  was  calculated  to  embarrass  Peter. 
"You  got  to  get  me  a  book  for  Michael,"  she  told 
Peter. 

"What  sort  of  a  book?" 

"Well,  I  guess  it's  called  'What  a  Young  Dog 
Ought  to  Know/  He  don't  know  any  of  the  facts 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          131 

about  life.  I  can  take  that  dog  past  a  million 
lamp-posts  and  ten  minutes  after  I  get  him  back 
in  the  flat  I've  got  to  lick  him.  Maybe  you  could 
give  him  a  little  plain  talk,  Peter.  Coming  from  a 
man,  you  know,  it'd  carry  more  weight  with  him.'* 

After  Peter  had  known  Vonnie  for  two  months 
she  did  move  to  Two  Hundred  and  Forty-second 
Street.  Peter  took  her  out  to  supper  a  week  later 
and  made  the  long  journey  up  town.  She  was  more 
subdued  than  usual  as  they  stood  at  the  door  of  the 
apartment  house.  He  put  both  hands  on  her 
shoulders  and  leaned  down  to  kiss  her  good  night. 

"Don't  you  like  me,  Peter?"  she  said. 

"Of  course  I  do.     You  know  that." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  go  away,  now.  I  don't 
want  you  to  go  away  tonight." 

"I've  got  to." 

"Why  have  you  got  to?" 

"I  think  I  ought  to  go." 

"Oh,  if  it's  just  morals,  forget  it.  There's  noth 
ing  to  be  afraid  of.  You're  not  in  love  with  me  and 
I'm  not  in  love  with  you.  I  just  like  you.  And  I'm 
lonely.  They  won't  let  me  keep  Michael  in  this 
place,  but  I  guess  I  can  sneak  you  in  if  you  don't 
bark  as  we  go  up  the  stairs." 


132         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

"Maybe  this'll  spoil  everything/'  said  Peter. 
"It's  been  so  nice  and  easy  and  pleasant  going  around 
with  you,  Vonnie.  If  I  get  in  love  with  you  some 
thing  will  happen  to  me  sure.  I  can't  stand  any 
thing  like  that  again.  I  do  like  you  a  lot.  That's 
the  trouble." 

"Oh,  Hell!  nothing  like  that's  going  to  happen. 
I'm  a  tough  bird.  I'll  make  you  a  promise,  Peter. 
The  minute  I  see  you're  falling  in  love  with  me  any 
I'll  tell  you  that  story  about  the  tattooed  man  and 
the  girl  from  Oshkosh  and  shock  it  right  out  of  you. 
Don't  make  any  noise,  Peter.  I've  found  the 
janitor's  a  light  sleeper.  And  don't  be  so  awful 
solemn.  Try  and  think  up  something  worse  that 
could  have  happened  to  you." 

Still  when  Vonnie  kissed  him  again  after  they  had 
tiptoed  up  two  flights  and  into  her  flat,  Peter  noticed 
that  this  time  she  did  not  laugh. 


CHAPTER  XV 


PETER  worried  a  good  deal  over  Vonnie's  pre 
dictions  as  to  Pat's  future.  The  doubt  which  she 
had  cast  upon  the  feasibility  of  his  scheme 
heightened  after  the  victrola  was  introduced  into  the 
flat.  The  man  on  the  floor  below  happened  to  be 
moving  and  meeting  Peter  in  the  hall  one  night 
he  struck  up  a  bargain  to  sell  his  phonograph  and 
all  the  records.  After  the  bargain  was  made  and 
the  machine  duly  delivered,  Peter  looked  over  the  re 
pertoire  and  found  it  queer  stuff  according  to  his 
notions.  "Werther — Ah!  non  mi  ridestar!"  sung 
by  Mattia  Battistini ;  "Siegfried's  Funeral  March"  ; 
'The  Funeral  March  of  a  Marionette."  It  seemed 
morbid  to  Peter.  "Minuet  in  G,  No.  2"  played  by 
Ysaye;  "Lucia  —  il  dolce  suono  (mad  scene)." 
"Merry  old  bird,"  thought  Peter.  "Invitation  to  the 
Waltz  —  Weber."  That  was  a  tune  he  knew,  but 
it  could  hardly  be  classed  as  cheerful. 

Peter  went  out  and  purchased  a  few  of  the  latest 
133 


134         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

song  hits— "The  Sextette  from  Floradora,"  "Under 
the  Shade  of  the  Sheltering  Palm,"  and  to  his  de 
light  he  found  "Any  Little  Thing  for  You,  Dear." 
Unfortunately  the  phonograph  company  had  chosen 
another  voice  instead  of  Vonnie's  for  the  record. 
Nevertheless,  Peter  bought  it  and  some  more. 

Pat  was  now  a  year  and  a  half  old,  but  he  mani 
fested  the  most  violent  interest  in  the  phonograph. 
That  pleased  Peter  but  he  did  not  like  it  quite  so 
well  when  Kate  reported  to  him,  "  Tis  a  queer  child, 
Mr.  Neale.  It's  them  red  records  he  does  be  playing 
all  the  time.  He  wants  the  one  about  somebody's 
funeral  all  the  time.  Would  you  believe  it  he  cries 
when  I  put  on  a  nice  tune  for  him." 

The  report  was  not  exaggerated.  Pat  liked  the 
song  from  Werther,  but  the  Siegfried  record  was  his 
favorite,  with  Gounod  a  close  second.  Indeed  his 
passion  to  have  his  own  particular  favorites  played 
and  no  others  seemed  to  be  the  compelling  influence 
which  brought  him  to  language.  Almost  his  first 
articulate  words  were  "Boom-Boom"  which  Peter 
eventually  and  regretfully  identified  as  an  attempt  to 
designate  the  Siegfried  Funeral  March.  When 
more  words  were  developed  The  Funeral  March  of 
a  Marionette  became  "the  other  Boom-Boom." 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          135 

Before  Pat  was  quite  two  he  could  mess  about  in 
the  cabinet  of  the  victrola  and  pick  out  a  dozen 
records  in  response  to  Peter's  request. 

"Go  get  the  red  Bat,"  Peter  would  say  and  Pat 
would  gravely  pull  out  a  handful  of  records  and  re 
turn  with  Battistini's  Werther.  For  that  matter  he 
knew  Floradora  well  enough  to  pick  it  out  of  the  pile 
but  he  never  held  it  out  to  Peter  with  an  imperious, 
"I  want"  as  he  did  whenever  he  got  his  hands  on 
"Siegfried"  or  'The  Funeral  March  of  a 
Marionette."  It  was  still  more  thrilling,  a  little 
later,  when  he  abandoned  his  descriptive  "Boom- 
Boom"  for  "Siegfried's  Funeral  March"  and  began 
to  call  it,  "Go  to  Bed  Tired."  Peter  never  knew 
just  how  Pat  could  identify  the  records  by  looking 
at  them.  He  supposed  that  some  of  the  titles  were 
longer  than  others  and  that  the  child  was  able  to 
bear  in  mind  the  picture  created  by  some  certain 
series  of  signs. 

But  a  still  more  shocking  discovery  came  when 
Peter  learned  that  his  tiny  son  could  identify  by 
sound  as  well  as  sight.  Peter,  for  instance,  was 
never  quite  certain  whether  the  record  being  played 
was  the  Mad  Scene  from  Lucia  or  the  Floradora 
Sextette.  At  any  rate  not  until  it  had  gone  along 


136         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

about  to  "On  bended  knee— on  bended  knee."  But 
there  was  no  fooling  Pat.  He  never  needed  more 
than  a  few  notes  before  he  was  able  to  exclaim  with 
a  well  justified  assurance  that  the  piece  in  question 
was  "Chi-Chi"  or  "Floor"  as  the  case  might  be. 
The  Weber  waltz  was  never  played  much  and  Pat 
had  no  name  for  it,  but  he  evidently  knew  it  well 
enough  for  no  sooner  was  it  started  than  he  would 
get  up  and  swing  slowly  from  side  to  side.  Peter 
finally  got  a  hammer  and  broke  that  record.  He 
would  have  liked  to  pass  the  victrola  on  to  some 
body  else  but  Kate  would  have  protested  as  well  as 
Pat.  Music  had  solved  for  her  the  problem  of  what 
to  do  with  Pat  on  rainy  days.  Outside  of  a  little 
cranking  these  once  difficult  experiences  had  now 
become  practically  painless. 

On  Pat's  second  birthday  Peter  was  startled  to  re 
ceive  at  the  office  of  the  Bulletin  a  package  directed  in 
the  handwriting  of  Maria  Algarez.  Peter  had  trav 
elled  a  little  of  the  way  toward  forgetting  Maria 
Algarez.  Time  had  done  something,  but  Vonnie  had 
done  more.  It  was  almost  seven  months  now  since 
Peter  first  went  to  Two  Hundred  and  Forty-second 
Street.  In  the  package  he  found  a  letter  and  a  phono 
graph  record.  On  the  disc  he  read  "Chanson  de 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          13? 

Solveig — Maria  Algarez."  The  letter  said — "Dear 
Peter — I  send  to  your  son  a  present  for  his  second 
birthday.  I  hope  he  will  like  it.  Is  his  name  Peter, 
too  ?  So  it  should  be.  He  will  be  a  fine  boy  I  think, 
big  and  strong  like  his  father.  And  make  it  so  that 
he  shall  grow  up  not  to  have  the  fear  of  anything  and 
not  the  shame  of  anything.  Here  for  two  years  I 
have  studied  the  English  hard.  You  see  I  write  it 
much  better.  Now  I  have  not  danced  for  two  years. 
First  it  was  because  of  the  baby.  It  was  not  his 
fault.  Maybe  I  have  left  the  hospital  too  soon.  I 
did  not  want  to  stay  longer  and  to  die.  All  the  time 
I  sing.  The  voice  it  is  magnificent.  Perhaps  it  is 
next  season  I  am  to  sing  in  the  Opera  Comique. 
For  the  phonograph  company  I  have  made  the  one 
record  and  they  say  it  will  be  more.  I  do  not  know. 
It  is  not  necessary  ever  for  me  to  see  your  son,  or  for 
him  to  see  me  but  some  time  you  will  play  for  him 
this  record.  That  he  should  hear  me  I  want.  You 
need  not  say  who  it  is.  That  does  not  matter.  In 
you,  Peter,  there  is  no  song.  For  little  Peter  that 
should  be  different.  Perhaps  you  will  say  no.  I 
do  not  think  so.  I  want  that  he  should  hear  my 
song — Maria." 

There  was  no  address.     Peter  played  Solveig's 


138         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

song  that  Sunday.  It  stirred  him  strangely.  This 
was  almost  a  tune.  When  the  notes  went  high  he 
could  not  only  see  Maria  in  the  room,  he  could 
almost  feel  her.  He  was  so  intent  with  this  presence 
that  he  did  not  watch  Pat.  The  child  was  lying  on 
the  floor.  He  said  nothing  until  the  last  note  had 
almost  died  away.  "I  want  the  red  Bat/'  he  said. 


ii 


Vonnie  never  came  to  the  flat  except  on  Sundays. 
It  wouldn't  do  to  have  Kate  know  anything  about 
her.  Several  weeks  after  the  arrival  of  Maria's 
letter  she  happened  in  just  as  Peter  was  playing  the 
Solveig  song  for  Pat.  The  child  never  put  this 
particular  record  into  his  list  of  imperatives,  but  he 
was  reconciled  to  it.  Perhaps  interested.  And 
Peter  felt  a  sort  of  compulsion  of  duty  to  play  it 
every  once  and  so  often.  He  had  been  surprised  in 
the  beginning  that  no  miracle  of  recognition  had 
occurred  in  Pat's  mind.  To  Pat  she  was  merely  a 
lady  singing.  Yet  Peter  could  not  be  sure  what 
currents  might  move  beneath  the  surface.  Any 
how  it  was  enough  for  him  that  Maria  had  asked 
that  he  play  the  record.  And  to  him  there  was  a 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          139 

certain  instinct  to  play  the  record  for  his  own  sake. 
Now  that  the  memory  was  not  so  painful  he  rather 
wanted  to  keep  it  alive.  The  thing  was  far  enough 
away  by  now  to  be  romantic.  Peter  took  a  definite 
pride  in  the  fact  that  once  his  heart  had  been  broken. 
That  didn't  happen  to  everybody. 

His  feeling  about  Vonnie  was  different.  She 
was  ever  so  much  more  fun  than  Maria,  but  she 
wasn't  romantic.  He  felt  that  he  knew  her  better. 
Certainly  he  was  more  assured  and  easy  with  her 
than  he  had  ever  been  with  Maria,  but  she  could  not 
move  him  to  that  curious  exalted  unhappiness  which 
he  had  once  known.  People  about  to  become 
monks  or  missionaries  must  feel  something  of  what 
he  felt  for  Maria.  Still,  that  wasn't  it  exactly. 
Maria  was  that  moment  before  you  hit  the  water  in  a 
chute  the  chutes.  Living  with  her  was  like  watch 
ing  a  baseball  game  with  the  bases  always  full  and 
two  strikes  on  the  batter.  Even  marriage  was  no 
windbreak.  There  was  never  a  moment  in  that 
year  when  he  had  not  felt  the  tang  of  a  gale  full 
upon  him.  Having  an  affair  with  Vonnie  was 
highly  respectable  in  comparison.  This  passion  was 
even  hospitable  to  little  jokes.  Life  had  become 
comfortable. 


140          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

He  did  not  know  whether  or  not  Vonnie  realized 
that  she  and  Maria  were  different.  They  no  longer 
talked  ever  of  Maria  Algarez.  Even  when  she  came 
in  upon  the  Solveig  song  Peter  would  have  said 
nothing  about  it. 

"It's  Maria,  isn't  it?"  asked  Vonnie. 

"Yes." 

"Where  did  you  get  it?" 

"She  sent  it  to  me." 

"Has  she  come  back?" 

"No,  it  just  said  Paris." 

"Maybe  she  thinks  she  don't  need  to  come  back. 
She  can  bean  you  just  as  good  with  a  phonograph 
record." 

Peter  said  nothing,  but  let  the  song  die  out  and 
then  took  the  disc  from  the  machine. 

"Here,"  said  Vonnie,  "let  me  see  it." 

Peter  handed  it  over.  Vonnie  looked  at  it  for  a 
moment,  then  she  moved  across  the  room. 

"Pete,"  she  said,  "what  would  you  do  if  I  dropped 
this  thing  out  the  window."  She  made  a  move  as  if 
to  put  the  suggestion  into  execution. 

"Don't  do  that,"  cried  Peter. 

"Don't  do  that,"  mimicked  Vonnie.  "You're 
still  a  damn  fool,  hey?" 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          141 

"It's  not  mine.     It  was  sent  to  Pat." 

"Oh,  yes,  blame  it  on  the  kid.  I  don't  suppose 
he's  a  nut  about  her,  too.  Are  you,  Pat?" 

Pat  seemed  to  have  no  comprehension  of  the  issue 
and  made  no  answer. 

"Look  here,  Pete,"  said  Vonnie,  "nobody  can  say 
I've  ever  been  jealous.  You  can  be  daffy  about 
anybody  you  like.  That's  none  of  my  business,  but 
I  can't  stand  it  to  have  you  such  a  fool  that  you'll  let 
this  damn  woman  slap  you  in  the  face  and  then  come 
back  for  more.  If  you  didn't  know  she  was  no 
good  in  the  first  place  you  ought  to  know  it 


now." 


"I  don't  want  you  to  say  that." 

"Well,  what  is  she  good  for?" 

"She's  the  greatest  dancer  in  the  world." 

"Don't  make  me  laugh." 

"You  know  she  is.  You  heard  them  cheering  her 
that  night." 

"Hell  to  that.  Everything  was  set  for  her. 
Somebody  gets  sick  and  on  she  waltzes.  Any 
audience'll  fall  for  that.  If  Carmencita  should  fall 
down  and  break  her  leg  I  could  do  the  same  thing. 
'Miss  Vonnie  Ryan  with  one  hour's  rehearsing  will 
take  the  place  of  Carmencita. '  It's  a  pinch." 


The  Boy  Grew  Older 

"All  right.  You've  got  your  opinion  and  I've  got 
mine.  Don't  let's  talk  about  it." 

"I'm  going  to  talk  about  it.  This  gets  settled 
right  now.  I  don't  have  to  be  first  with  you,  Pete, 
or  anybody  else,  but  I'm  not  going  to  run  second  to 
a  dish- faced  mutt.  I've  got  some  pride  in  the  people 
that  cut  me  out.  Either  I  smash  that  phonograph 
record  or  you  and  I  smash." 

"Give  me  that." 

Vonnie  handed  it  over. 

"All  right,"  she  said.  "I'm  sorry.  It  was  silly 
for  me  to  bawl  you  out.  You  haven't  done  any 
thing  to  me.  God  knows  I  can't  stand  here  and  say 
you  seduced  me.  I  had  to  get  a  half-nelson  on  you 
to  pull  you  into  the  flat  that  night.  Maybe  that's 
what  makes  me  so  sore.  I  put  a  lot  of  work  in  on 
you,  Pete." 

"Please  don't  go  way,  Vonnie.  It's  silly  for  us  to 
scrap  over  a  phonograph  record." 

"Everything's  silly.  I  got  to  go  way.  I'm  going 
to  get  just  as  far  away  as  I  can.  I'm  going  to  get 
in  some  road  company  going  to  the  Coast  and  then 
by  God,  I  hope  we  get  stranded.  You  poor  mutt,  I'm 
in  love  with  you." 

"Oh,  please,  Vonnie,  don't  cry.    I  know  I'm  no 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          143 

good.     I  just  can't  help  it  about  that  phonograph 
record." 

"Well,  you  don't  suppose  I'd  bawl  this  way  if  I 
could  help  it.  Now  don't  be  patting  me  on  the  back. 
I  don't  love  you  enough  to  let  you,  There!  there!' 


me." 


She  moved  resolutely  to  the  door  and  by  the  time 
she  reached  it  the  line  had  come  to  her. 

"I  ought've  known,"  said  Vonnie,  "no  good  could 
come  out  of  taking  up  with  a  fellow  that  thinks 
Mertes  is  a  better  outfielder  than  George  Browne." 


CHAPTER   XVI 


VONNIE  made  good  her  threat  and  two  weeks 
after  the  quarrel  Peter  received  a  picture  postcard 
of  a  giant  redwood.  The  message  said,  "Well 
Peter  here  I  am  in  San  Francisco— Vonnie."  It 
was  the  first  written  communication  he  had  ever 
received  from  her  and  so  he  did  not  know  whether 
or  not  the  brevity  was  habitual  or  was  intended  to 
convey  a  rebuke.  It  seemed  safe  to  assume  the 
latter  as  Vonnie  sent  no  address. 

Peter  found  himself  turning  to  Pat  for  com 
panionship.  Perhaps  he  did  not  exactly  turn,  but 
was  rather  tugged  about  without  will  of  his  own. 
The  needs  of  Pat  were  increasingly  greater  and 
Peter  was  caught  up  into  them  now  that  he  had 
nothing  in  particular  to  do  with  his  evenings.  In 
stead  of  taking  Vonnie  out  to  an  early  dinner  before 
the  show  he  helped  to  put  Pat  to  bed.  It  didn't  seem 
quite  virile  to  Peter,  but  it  was  easier  than  hanging 
around  Jack's  or  Joel's  or  the  Eldorado.  Of  course, 
Pat  was  supposed  to  be  in  bed  long  before  the  night 

144 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          145 

life  of  New  York  had  really  begun,  but  bit  by  bit 
he  edged  his  time  ahead  until  it  was  often  eleven  or 
after  before  he  fell  off  to  sleep.  The  child  fought 
against  sleep  as  if  it  were  a  count  of  ten.  Never 
within  Peter's  memory  did  Pat  express  a  willing 
ness  to  go  to  sleep,  much  less  a  desire.  It  was  always 
necessary  to  conduct  him  forcibly  over  the  line 
where  consciousness  ceased. 

Peter  was  swept  under  the  tyranny  of  this  obliga 
tion  a  couple  of  nights  after  Vonnie  went  away. 
Unable  to  think  up  anything  to  do,  he  came  back 
to  the  flat  a  little  after  ten.  He  saw  a  light  burning 
down  the  hall  in  Pat's  room  and  occasional  en 
treaties  and  commands  drifted  out.  Pat  wanted  a 
drink  of  water  and  the  toy  alligator  and  the  electric 
engine  and  six  freight  cars.  Looking  at  his  watch 
Peter  found  that  it  was  half  past  ten.  He  walked 
into  the  child's  room  and  exclaimed  sternly,  "What's 
all  this  racket  about?" 

"He  wants  the  funny  section  read  to  him,"  ex 
plained  Kate,  "and  it's  been  lost  some  place.  I 
can't  find  it  anywhere." 

"That's  perfect  rubbish,"  said  Peter. 

"I've  looked  all  over  for  it,  Mr.  Neale." 

"That  wasn't  what  I  meant  was  rubbish,  Kate. 

10 


H6         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

I'm  glad  you  lost  it.  I  want  you  to  keep  on  losing 
it.  I  meant  it's  rubbish  for  him  to  be  staying  up 
this  late  and  asking  for  things." 

"Yes  sir." 

"Now  we'll  both  say  good  night  to  him,  Kate,  and 
let  him  go  to  sleep." 

Pat  began  to  cry  not  only  loudly  but  with  a  certain 
note  of  sincerity  which  caught  Peter's  ear.  "What's 
the  matter  with  him  now?" 

"He  made  me  promise  I'd  tell  him  a  story  if  I 
couldn't  find  the  funny  paper,"  said  Kate. 

"It's  too  late  now  and  anyway  if  he  made  you  do 
it,  Kate,  it  isn't  a  promise.  It  don't  count." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Neale.  But  it's  so  set  he  is  he'll  be 
calling  me  back  all  the  night  long  for  me  to  tell  him 
the  story.  It's  nothing  he  does  be  forgetting." 

"All  right,  Kate,  we'll  settle  that  very  easily.  You 
go  out  and  I'll  stay  and  he  can  cry  his  head  off." 

"Where'll  I  go,  Mr.  Neale?" 

"I  don't  care,  Kate.  Go  any  place  you  like.  It 
isn't  eleven  o'clock  yet.  Where  do  you  usually  go  ?" 

"To  my  sister's  in  Jamaica,  but  it's  no  time  to 
be  routing  them  out  at  this  hour." 

"Well,  let  me  see.  I  tell  you,  Kate,  there's  a 
moving  picture  theatre  down  there  at  Fifty-ninth 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          147 

Street  that  keeps  going  till  after  one.  Here's  some 
money.  You  go  there  and  see  the  picture  and  I'll 
stay  and  show  this  young  man  he  can't  get  every 
thing  he  cries  for." 

"I  want  to  see  the  picture,"  said  Pat,  sitting  up  in 
bed. 

"Now  don't  be  silly.  You  get  back  there  on  your 
pillow,"  said  Peter,  "or  I'll  just  knock  you  down." 

Kate  rummaged  around  for  her  bonnet  and  finally 
went  out.  During  all  this  time  Pat  kept  up  a  sup 
pressed  sobbing.  As  soon  as  the  door  slammed  be 
hind  Kate  he  was  sufficiently  rested  again  to  begin 
crying  full  force. 

"Well,  what  is  it  now?"  said  Peter  as  fiercely  as 
he  could. 

Pat's  utterance  was  muffled  with  tears.  "I  want 
a  story." 

"You  heard  Kate  go  out.  If  you've  got  any  sense 
you  know  she  can't  tell  you  a  story." 

"You  tell  me  a  story." 

"I'm  too  busy.     Go  to  sleep." 

"Why  are  you  busy?" 

"Because  I  am.     Now  go  to  sleep." 

"I  don't  want  to  go  to  sleep.  I  want  you  to  tell 
me  a  story." 


148          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

Pat  commenced  to  cry  again.  He  had  sensed  an 
opening. 

Peter  dropped  his  guard.  "Just  one  story?"  he 
asked. 

Upon  the  instant  Pat  ceased  crying  and  sat  up. 
"Tell  me  about  the  old  beggarman  and  Saint  Pat." 

"I  don't  know  it,"  said  Peter.  In  fact  he  felt 
almost  as  if  he  had  been  suddenly  called  upon  to 
make  a  speech  at  a  public  banquet.  Of  course,  he 
had  heard  of  Cinderella  and  Red  Riding  Hood  and 
Aladdin  and  the  wonderful  lamp,  but  he  could  not 
quite  remember  what  any  of  them  did.  Suddenly 
he  remembered  another  source  book. 

"Once,"  he  began,  "there  was  a  man  named  Go 
liath  and  he  was  the  biggest  man  in  the  world.  He 
could  beat  any  man  in  the  world.  And  one  day 
there  was  a  little  man  named  David ." 

"I'm  bigger  than  David,"  interrupted  Pat. 

"I  guess  you  are.  He  was  a  little  bit  of  a  man, 
but  he  wasn't  afraid  of  Goliath.  He  said,  'Ole  Go 
liath,  you  talk  too  much.  You  make  me  sick/  And 
he  picked  up  a  rock  and  hit  Goliath  and  knocked 
him  down." 

"Why  did  he  knock  Goliath  down?"  Pat  wanted 
to  know. 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          149 

"I  guess  he  knocked  Goliath  down  because  it  was 
Goliath's  bedtime  and  Goliath  wouldn't  go  to  bed." 

Pat  remained  alert  in  spite  of  the  moralizing. 
He  gave  no  hint  of  recognition  that  the  end  of  a 
story  had  been  reached.  Anyhow,  the  creative  im 
pulse  had  seized  upon  Peter  particularly  since  it 
might  be  so  unblushingly  combined  with  pro 
paganda. 

"Well,"  he  continued,  "pretty  soon  George 
Browne  came  out  of  his  house  and  he  was  the  second 
biggest  man  in  the  world  and  he  wouldn't  go  to  bed 
and  so  David  picked  up  another  great  big  rock  and 
knocked  him  down.  And  then  your  friend  the  Red 
Bat  came  out  of  his  house  and  he  was  the  next  big 
gest  man  in  the  world  and  he  wouldn't  go  to  bed  and 
so  David  picked  up  another  rock  and  knocked  him 
down." 

"No,  he  didn't/'  broke  in  Pat. 

"I'm  telling  this  story.  David  hit  the  Red  Bat 
with  a  rock  and  knocked  him  down  because  he 
wouldn't  go  to  bed." 

"No,  he  didn't." 

"Oh,  all  right  then,  if  you  know  so  much  about  it, 
he  didn't.  What  did  he  do?" 

"He  knocked  David  down." 


The  Boy  Grew  Older 

Peter  realized  that  his  narrative  was  overburdened 
with  propaganda  and  he  was  artist  enough  to  throw 
over  some  of  his  moralizing  ballast. 

"Well,  this  was  the  way  it  happened,  Pat.  David 
picked  up  a  big  rock  and  threw  it  at  the  Red  Bat, 
but  the  Red  Bat  was  too  smart  for  him.  The  Red 
Bat  caught  the  rock  and  threw  it  back  at  David  and 
knocked  him  down.  That  was  it,  wasn't  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  Pat. 

When  Kate  returned  a  little  after  one  Peter  re 
ported,  "I  didn't  have  any  bother  with  him.  He 
just  went  right  off  to  sleep." 

" 

David  and  Goliath  became  set  as  a  bedtime  story 
and  lasted  through  the  next  six  months  almost 
without  change.  Indeed  Pat  resented  changes. 
"Once,"  Peter  would  begin,  "there  was  a  man  named 
Goliath  and  he  was  the  biggest  man  in  the  world 
and  he  could  lick  any  man  in  the  world." 
"Not  lick,"  Pat  would  interrupt.  "Beat." 
"Oh,  yes,  he  could  beat  any  man  in  the  world." 
Peter  found  himself  coming  home  for  Pat's  bed 
time  with  increasing  frequency.  Once  or  twice  he 
tried  to  break  away,  but  upon  such  occasions  Kate 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          151 

reported  that  the  child  had  cried  for  him  and  had 
kept  awake  until  after  midnight  asking  for  the  story 
of  David  and  Goliath. 

"You  tell  it  to  him,"  said  Peter.  "I  think  I  can 
teach  it  to  you.  He  wants  it  just  this  way."  And 
he  repeated  the  accepted  version. 

Kate  shook  her  head.  "I'm  too  old  a  woman  to 
be  learning  so  many  words,  Mr.  Neale,"  she  said. 
"And  it's  not  a  story  I  think  Father  Ryan  would 
like  me  to  be  telling.  That's  not  the  way  the  story 
do  be  going  in  our  Bible." 

"Gosh,"  thought  Peter  to  himself.  "She  thinks 
it  was  Martin  Luther  made  those  changes." 

Notwithstanding  Goliath,  Peter  made  a  gallant 
attempt  to  break  away  from  his  newly  found  re 
sponsibilities.  He  felt  that  he  ought  to.  He  felt 
that  in  the  restaurants  and  poolrooms  there  lay  the 
sort  of  sporting  gossip  he  ought  to  pick  up  for 
his  column.  Of  course,  not  all  New  York  kept 
Pat's  hours  in  those  days  but  there  was  something 
almost  auto-hypnotic  in  getting  the  child  to  sleep. 
In  addition  to  the  bedtime  story,  Peter  found  it  neces 
sary  to  feign  great  weariness  in  order  to  suggest  a 
similar  feeling  in  Pat.  He  would  yawn  pro 
digiously  immediately  after  the  Red  Bat  had 


152          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

knocked  down  David  and  pretend  to  doze  off  on  the 
foot  of  Pat's  bed.  Presently,  he  would  hear  the 
boy's  regular  breathing  and  would  tiptoe  out  of  the 
room.  But  Peter  acted  his  role  much  too  well. 
After  so  much  shamming  he  generally  was  actually 
tired  himself  and  indisposed  to  wander  down  to 
Jack's  or  any  of  the  other  places  where  he  might 
find  fighters  or  their  managers. 

Indeed,  he  made  the  discovery  that  the  material 
to  be  extracted  from  these  people  was  not  inex 
haustible.  Like  David  and  Goliath  they  had  a 
tendency  to  run  into  formula.  "And  I  yell  at  him, 
don't  box  him;  fight  him.  Keep  rushing  him. 
Don't  let  him  set.  And  when  he  comes  to  his  corner 
at  the  end  of  the  third  round  I  bawl  in  his  ear, 
'You  kike  so  and  so,  begging  your  pardon,  Mr. 
Neale,  if  you  don't  get  that  lousy  \vop  I'm  done  with 
you/  And  wrould  you  believe  me  it  did  him  a  lot  of 
good.  It  put  guts  in  him.  In  the  fourth  we  nail 
him  with  a  right  and  we  win.  Now  we're  going 
after  the  champ  and  if  we  ever  get  him  into  a  ring 
we'll  lick  him." 

A  year  or  so  before  Neale  could  have  taken  stuff 
like  that  and  worked  it  over  into  a  column  on  "The 
Psychology  of  a  Prizefight  Manager."  But  now 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          153 

all  the  inspiration  was  gone.  He  had  heard  pre 
cisely  the  same  tale  in  much  the  same  language  too 
many  times.  He  was  almost  tempted  to  cry  out, 
"Not  lick  him,  beat  him." 

Nor  was  there  much  more  available  color  in  the 
fighters  themselves.  They  were  a  silent  crowd, 
most  of  them,  particularly  if  they  happened  to  have  a 
manager  along. 

Once,  Peter  found  Dave  Keyes,  the  Brooklyn 
lightweight,  sitting  all  alone  in  Jack's.  He  was 
going  great  guns  that  year  and  Peter  thought  of  him 
as  the  logical  successor  to  the  champion.  They  had 
met  a  couple  of  times  at  fight  clubs,  but  Keyes  did 
not  seem  to  remember  Peter.  He  was  sober  but 
not  bright.  Still,  Peter  felt  that  he  might  draw  him 
out  during  the  course  of  the  evening.  In  time 
Keyes  began  to  talk  freely  enough.  He  was  even 
confidential  but  fighting  seemed  to  be  the  last  thing 
in  the  world  he  cared  to  discuss. 

"You  see  there's  two  dames  fall  for  me.  And 
the  tough  break  is  the  both  of  them  lives  on  the  same 
block.  See.  Well,  let  me  tell  you  how  I  works  it. 
First  I  give  Helen,  that's  the  blonde  one,  a  ring  and 
then  right  bang  on  top  of  that  I  has  the  call  switched 
over  to  Grade's  flat ." 


i54          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

"Life/'  thought  the  harassed  Peter  Neale,  "is  just 
one  bedtime  story  after  another." 

In  the  Spring  a  long  swing  around  the  baseball 
training  camps  took  Peter  away  for  almost  two 
months  and  another  month  and  a  half  went  in  a 
fruitless  journey  to  Juarez  to  wait  for  a  fight  which 
never  happened.  It  was  June  when  Peter  returned 
and  to  his  horror  he  found  that  the  child  had  picked 
up  theology  in  his  absence.  A  storm  helped  the  dis 
covery.  The  roll  of  the  thunder  was  still  a  long  way 
off  when  Peter  called  it  to  Pat's  attention.  "We're 
going  to  have  a  thunderstorm/'  he  said. 

"No,  we're  not,"  answered  the  child.  "Thunder 
storms  only  come  when  you're  bad." 

"What's  that?"  asked  Peter. 

"A  thunderstorm's  God  showing  his  ankle,"  ex 
plained  Pat. 

This  did  not  seem  a  dogma  altogether  iron  clad 
and  yet  it  worried  Peter. 

"Thunder's  got  nothing  to  do  with  you're  being 
bad,"  he  told  Pat.  "If  that  was  it  we'd  have 
thunder  all  the  time.  Thunder's  nothing  to  be  afraid 
of.  It's  just  somebody  up  the  sky  saying  'Booh' 
at  you  for  fun." 

"God  lives  up  in  the  sky." 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          155 

"How  do  you  know  that  ?    Did  you  see  him  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Pat  stoutly. 

That  made  the  question  difficult  to  argue. 

"All  right,"  continued  Peter.  "Call  him  God  if 
you  want  to.  Anyhow,  when  it's  thunder  he's  just 
saying  'Booh'  at  you  and  if  you  get  scared  you 
haven't  got  any  sense.  Remember  that's  what 
thunder  is.  Just  somebody  named  God  saying 
'Booh.'  " 

"No,  it  isn't." 

"Well,  you  tell  me  then." 

"When  it's  thunder,"  said  Pat,  pointing  up  the 
street  in  the  direction  of  Central  Park,  "it's  a  big 
giant  in  the  trees." 

The  child  paused.     "A  blind  giant,"  he  added. 

Peter  stared  at  him  and  wondered  whether  the 
phrase  and  figure  were  his  own  or  whether  he  had 
picked  them  up  from  Kate.  Later  Peter  took  occa 
sion  to  ask  her  and  she  denied  it.  "God's  ankle,"  she 
admitted  but  only  after  revision.  "You  know,  Mr. 
Neale,  it's  the  way  he  has  of  getting  things  twisted 
in  his  little  head.  You  understand  now  it  was 
'God's  anger'  I  was  a  telling  him." 

"Oh,  I  knew  that  all  right,  Kate.  I  knew  he  made 
up  the  ankle  part  of  it.  But  you're  sure  you  didn't 


156         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

tell  him  anything  about  thunder  and  a  giant  in  the 
trees — a  blind  giant." 

"No,  sir." 

Peter  got  to  thinking  things  over  and  began  to 
remember  what  Vonnie  had  said  concerning  the 
future  of  Pat.  He  was  worried.  This  idolatry  of 
the  Red  Bat  who  sang  on  the  phonograph  he  didn't 
like.  After  this  it  would  have  to  be  somebody  else 
who  knocked  David  down.  Sandow  Mertes  maybe. 
Then  there  was  this  blind  giant  in  the  trees.  He 
didn't  mind  Pat's  growing  up  to  be  a  poet.  That 
would  fit  into  the  column  nicely  enough,  but  not 
wild  poetry.  The  thing  had  to  be  kept  in  bounds  or 
there  wasn't  any  way  to  syndicate  it.  Still  the  next 
column  of  "Looking  Them  Over"  which  Peter 
wrote  contained  a  little  poem  somewhat  outside  his 
usual  manner.  It  was  called,  "The  Big  Blind 
Giant." 

Three  days  later  the  syndicate  manager  on  the 
Bulletin  called  up  Peter.  'We've  got  six  telegrams 
already  about  that  poem  of  yours,"  he  said.  "The 
one  about  the  big  blind  giant  running  around  and 
hitting  his  head  against  the  trees." 

"What's  the  matter  with  it?"  "asked  Peter 
aggressively. 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          157 

"Nothing  at  all,  Peter,  they  all  say  it's  great. 
All  but  that  sporting  editor  of  the  Des  Moines 
Register — you  know  him,  Caleb  Powers  ?" 

"No,  I  don't  know  him.    What's  he  say?" 

"He  just  gives  the  name  of  the  poem  and  then  he 
says  in  his  telegram,  'Don't  tell  me  the  answer,  I 
want  to  guess.' ' 

"Five  out  of  six  is  plenty,"  said  Peter.  "And 
say,  Bill,  where  do  you  suppose  I  got  the  idea 
from?" 

"Where?" 

"From  my  kid — Peter  Neale,  2nd.  He  isn't  four 
yet,  but  you  see  I've  got  him  working  for  the 
Bulletin  already." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

PAT  furnished  copy  for  Peter  again  within  a 
month.  Kate  came  in  from  the  Park  all  breathless 
with  an  account  of  a  fight  between  the  child  and 
his  friend  and  playmate  Bobby,  last  name  not  given. 

"It  was  about  an  engine,"  explained  Kate.  "Bobby 
give  it  to  Pat  and  then  he  wanted  to  take  it  away 
again.  Before  we  could  get  to  them  Pat  hit  Bobby 
in  the  mouth  so  hard  it  made  his  mouth  bleed.  And 
that  Bobby,  him  almost  six  years  old.  And  a  head 
taller  than  Pat.  He  bled  something  terrible,  Mr. 
Neale.  First  I  thought  it  was  just  Bobby's  blood  on 
Pat's  hand,  but  it  kept  on  and  when  I  looked  closer 
there  was  all  the  skin  off  of  the  knuckles  of  Pat.  It 
must  have  been  the  teeth  of  that  Bobby  when  Pat 
hit  him.  I'll  be  putting  iodine  on  it  this  very  minute 
if  you'll  watch  till  I  get  back,  Mr.  Neale." 

"Put  down  that  engine  and  come  here,  Pat/' 
said  Peter. 

"I  can't  hear  you." 

158 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          159 

"Yes,  you  can.  I  said  put  down  that  engine. 
Nobody's  going  to  take  it  away  from  you.  Not 
just  now,  anyway.  It's  not  yours  but  I  suppose 
you've  won  it.  Come  here,  I  want  to  see  your 
hand." 

Very  reluctantly  Pat  placed  the  engine  on  the 
sofa  and  advanced  slowly. 

"It's  all  red,"  he  said. 

Peter  took  off  the  handkerchief.  "Nonsense,"  he 
said,  "you  haven't  more  than  scratched  it." 

He  was  about  to  dismiss  the  matter  from  his 
mind  and  start  for  the  office  when  he  noticed  some 
thing  he'd  overlooked.  "Kate,  Kate,"  cried  Peter 
in  great  excitement,  "this  hand  that  Pat  cut  hitting 
that  boy  is  his  left  hand." 

"Yes,  'tis  his  left  hand  he'd  be  using  all  the  time 
when  I'm  not  noticing  him,"  said  Kate,  returning 
with  the  iodine.  "That's  where  the  strength  is. 
It'll  be  hard  to  teach  him  out  of  it." 

"I  don't  want  him  taught  out  of  it,  Kate.  Don't 
you  ever  try  to  stop  him.  It's  bad  to  try  to  change 
children  around.  Anyway  I  don't  want  him 
changed.  This  is  fine  for  him.  When  he  grows  up 
and  plays  baseball  he'll  be  two  steps  nearer  first  base 
and  besides  the  swing  will  throw  him  into  his  stride. 


160          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

Maybe  you  don't  know  what  I'm  talking  about, 
Kate,  but  remember  I  want  him  to  stay  a  left 
hander." 

Peter  went  down  to  the  office  and  wrote,  "There 
seems  to  be  no  shadow  of  doubt  from  which  hope 
can  spring — I  am  the  father  of  a  southpaw."  He 
nursed  the  theme  and  the  incident  along  for  almost 
a  column,  and  there  were  other  by-products  of 
comfort.  In  the  City  Room  Peter  ran  into  Deane 
Taylor,  the  venerable  music  critic  of  the  Bulletin. 

"Mr.  Taylor,"  he  asked,  "did  you  ever  see  a  left- 
handed  violin  player?" 

"No,  Peter,"  said  the  old  man,  "there's  no  such 
thing.  Of  course  there  might  be  left-handed  piano 
players,  but  certainly  all  the  fiddlers  and  all  the 
conductors  are  right-handed.  Come  to  think  of  it, 
I  don't  know  any  left-handed  musicians  at  all.  But 
if  you're  writing  something  about  that  you  better 
ask  somebody  else.  I  might  be  wrong.  You  see 
I've  never  gone  into  music  from  that  angle." 

"No,"  replied  Peter,  "this  is  just  something  I'm 
interested  in  personally.  Your  impression's  good 
enough  for  me.  You  don't  have  to  prove  it.  Thank 
you  very  much." 

Peter  went  away  greatly  pleased.     "There's  one 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          161 

of  Vonnie's  guesses  gone  wrong  anyhow/'  he  said. 

From  his  observations  of  professional  baseball, 
Peter  had  worked  out  the  theory  that  left 
handers  were  more  difficult  to  handle  than  anybody 
else.  There  was  Rube  Waddell  for  instance.  Peter 
had  seen  him  call  the  outfielders  in  for  the  ninth 
inning  and  retire  the  side  with  only  an  infield  be 
hind  him.  And  everybody  knew  about  the  way 
Rube  used  to  disappear  every  now  and  then  during 
the  middle  of  a  season  and  go  fishing.  Only  the 
day  before  he  had  had  a  Rube  Waddell  story  in  his 
column.  It  was  about  Rube  and  the  animal  crackers. 
The  man  who  told  Peter  said  the  story  came  straight 
from  Connie  Mack  and  that  there  was  no  doubt 
about  its  being  true.  Ollie  Shreck,  Rube's  regular 
catcher,  wouldn't  sign  a  contract  one  season.  When 
they  asked  him  the  trouble  he  said,  "They  always 
put  me  in  to  room  with  Rube  on  the  road.  Maybe 
they  think  I  understand  him  after  catching  him  so 
much.  Well,  Mr.  Mack,  I  won't  sign  no  contract 
unless  you  put  in  a  clause  that  Rube  can't  eat  animal 
crackers  in  our  bed." 

Pat  lived  up  to  most  of  Peter's  theories  about 
southpaws.  Before  the  child  had  quite  turned  four 
Peter  discovered  that  Kate  had  no  control  over  him. 

1Z 


162          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

She  had  given  him  a  little  theology  but  no  discipline. 
The  facts  came  out  through  her  complaint  that  Pat 
wouldn't  eat  any  of  the  things  which  he  was  sup 
posed  to  eat.  A  doctor  called  in  to  attend  a  passing 
cold  had  remained  to  suggest  a  diet.  He  was 
horrified  to  learn  that  Kate  had  allowed  the  child 
to  eat  meat  two  or  three  times  a  day,  with  the  excep 
tion  of  Friday,  just  as  she  did. 

"Your  child  is  just  about  one  ton  behind  in 
spinach,"  said  Dr.  Whiting  to  Peter.  "He's  got  to 
catch  up,  but  there  won't  be  any  particular  trouble 
about  that.  He's  pretty  sure  to  like  spinach.  All 
children  do.  And  I  want  him  to  have  more  milk." 

Peter  found  upon  inquiry  that  Pat  had  never 
known  spinach.  "I  don't  like  it,"  explained  Kate. 

"Well,  he's  got  to  have  a  lot  of  it,"  said  Peter.  "I 
want  you  to  start  right  in  today." 

The  report  next  morning  was  unsatisfactory. 
"How  did  the  spinach  go?"  asked  Peter.  "He 
wouldn't  eat  any  of  it,"  answered  Kate.  "He  said 
he  didn't  like  it." 

"How  could  he  tell  he  didn't  like  it  if  he  didn't 
eat  any,"  objected  Peter  sharply. 

"I  don't  know.  But  he  said  he  didn't  like  it.  He 
threw  the  plate  on  the  floor." 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          163 

"How  about  the  milk?" 

"He  wouldn't  drink  any." 

"Didn't  you  tell  him  that  he  had  to." 

"I  did  that,  Mr.  Neale.  I  told  him  God  wouldn't 
love  him  if  he  didn't  eat  his  nice  spinach  and  that, 
begging  your  pardon,  sir,  you'd  cry." 

"Today,"  said  Peter  with  a  certain  magnificence, 
'Til  stay  home  and  eat  lunch  with  him  myself.  And 
for  lunch  we'll  have  just  spinach  and  milk." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Peter,  with  great  gusto  as 
lunch  was  served,  "isn't  this  fine — milk  and  spinach. 
Kate,  how  did  you  know  just  what  we  wanted?" 

"I  don't  want  any  lunch,"  said  Pat. 

"No  spinach?" 

Pat  did  not  deign  a  reply. 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"I  want  crackerjack  and  ice  cream." 

"Spinach  is  what  you're  going  to  get." 

Pat  began  to  cry,  but  Peter  found  that  it  was 
only  a  sign  of  rage  and  net  of  weakness.  The 
child's  refusal  remained  steadfast.  Finally,  Peter 
spanked  him  for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  It  was 
not  a  success.  Pat  cried  a  lot  more  but  he  ate 
no  spinach.  Press  of  other  work  kept  Peter  from 
pursuing  the  problem  for  three  days,  during  which 


164         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

time  the  child  reverted  to  his  old  diet.  In  a  second 
personally  conducted  test,  Peter  Neale  managed  to 
induce  Pat  both  to  drink  milk  and  eat  spinach,  but 
it  was  not  exactly  a  triumph.  The  result  was  gained 
by  strategy,  which  was  ingenious  but  also  abject. 
Moreover,  it  was  almost  wholly  accidental.  Driven 
desperate  by  an  unyielding  stubbornness,  Peter  at 
length  lost  his  temper  and  shouted  at  the  child.  "All 
right  then,  don't  eat  any  spinach.  I  won't  let  you 
eat  any  spinach." 

Pat  scowled  and,  reaching  all  the  way  across  the 
table,  helped  himself  to  a  large  spoonful.  "I'm 
eating  spinach,"  he  said,  "I'm  eating  it  right  now." 

The  only  thing  of  which  Peter  had  a  right  to 
boast  was  that  he  did  not  allow  any  false  pride  to 
stand  between  him  and  the  object  which  he  sought. 
He  was  quick  to  seize  his  opportunity.  Pat's  seem 
ing  free  will  was  harnessed  to  serve  the  predeter 
mined  purposes  of  an  ego  less  powerful  but  more 
unscrupulous. 

"Maybe  you  are  eating  a  little  spinach,"  said 
Peter,  "but  I  guess  you  won't  dare  take  any  milk 
when  I  tell  you  not  to." 

Pat  fell  into  the  trap.  "Look  at  me  now,  Peter, 
I'm  drinking  it  all  up." 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          165 

Once  he  learned  the  method  Peter  became  a  strict 
disciplinarian.  Almost  invariably  Pat  disobeyed 
with  alacrity  when  he  heard  the  stalwart  and  ringing 
command,  "Now,  Pat,  I  don't  want  you  to  go  to  bed 
and  I  don't  want  you  to  go  this  very  minute."  Of 
course  the  thing  became  a  little  complicated.  Even 
after  much  practice  Peter  used  to  get  somewhat 
mixed  up  over  such  instructions  as,  "No,  the  night 
gown  I  don't  want  you  to  wear  is  the  one  over 
there." 

The  eating  problem  was  subjected  to  still  further 
complexities.  Peter  was  shrewd  enough  to  realize 
that  the  scheme  of  indirect  discourse  might  become 
strained  beyond  all  usefulness  if  employed  too  much. 
Pat  conformed  and  yet  it  became  evident  at  length 
that  he  saw  through  the  trickery.  On  his  fifth 
birthday,  for  instance,  at  his  party  he  made  no  rush 
for  the  ice  cream  which  was  placed  before  him  but 
looked  up  plaintively  and  said,  "Peter,  why  don't 
you  tell  me  not  to  eat  my  ice  cream." 

Accordingly,  other  games  were  invented.  The 
milk  race  proved  generally  useful  but  rules  had  to 
be  devised  to  prevent  Pat  from  going  too  fast. 
Eventually  the  contest  was  introduced  by  Peter 
as  "a  slow  milk  race."  In  order  to  prevent  Pat 


i66          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

from  choking  to  death  he  would  cry  every  now  and 
then  "Measure !"  At  that  signal  both  would  lower 
their  glasses  and  set  one  against  the  other  on  the 
table.  Pat  took  over  the  announcing  of  these  re 
sults.  He  used  only  one  decision — "I'm  ahead" — 
and  this  bore  no  accurate  relation  to  the  actual 
quantity  of  milk  in  the  two  glasses. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  milk  race  never  was  a 
very  sporting  proposition.  Pat  always  won  and  as 
the  practice  continued  he  began  to  demand  new 
guarantees  of  success.  "You  mustn't  start  till  I'm 
through,  Peter,"  he  would  say.  "I  want  to  win." 
Peter  also  hit  upon  the  device  of  serving  Pat  with 
nothing  but  "special  milk."  His  own  came  out 
of  the  same  bottle  but  had  no  title.  Nobody 
but  Pat  was  supposed  under  any  circumstances  to 
be  allowed  to  touch  "special  milk."  The  story, 
circulated  by  Peter,  was  that  the  cow  wouldn't 
like  it. 

Another  incentive  to  appetite  was  playing  burglar. 
This  game  was  also  one  of  Peter's  inventions,  but 
Pat  eventually  became  the  aggressor.  "You  must 
be  asleep,"  he  would  say,  "and  I  must  be  a  burglar 
and  come  along  and  steal  some  of  your  spinach. 
Shut  your  eyes." 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          167 

Even  years  afterward  Peter  could  never  look 
at  spinach  without  blinking. 

Kate  was  not  very  apt  at  any  of  the  eating  games 
and  the  result  was  that  Peter  found  himself  more 
bound  to  the  flat  than  ever.  Now  he  seldom  got 
down  to  the  office  except  during  the  hours  between 
lunch  and  dinner.  The  feeding  and  more  particu 
larly,  the  urging  of  Pat  came  to  be  almost  a  regular 
duty.  Peter  was  never  quite  sure  whether  he  liked  or 
hated  these  activities.  Although  they  were  confining 
and  arduous  he  got  an  undeniable  satisfaction  out  of 
them.  He  was  succeeding  with  something  a  good 
deal  more  personal  than  a  syndicate.  He  was  suc 
ceeding  where  Kate,  the  mother  of  five  or  six,  had 
failed. 

"Maybe  women  are  all  right  for  children  when 
they  get  a  little  older,"  was  the  way  Peter  expressed 
it  to  himself,  "but  they  haven't  imagination  enough 
to  handle  a  little  one  like  Pat.  That's  a  man's  job." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

PAT  was  six  years  old  when  he  saw  his  first  ball 
game  up  at  the  old  hill  top  park  of  the  New  York 
Yankees  who  were  then  the  Highlanders.  The  Red 
Sox  were  the  visiting  team. 

'That's  Sea  Lion  Harry  Hall,"  said  Peter,  point 
ing  to  a  man  in  a  gray  uniform  who  was  throwing 
the  ball.  Pat  tried  to  follow  the  direction  in  which 
Peter  pointed. 

"I  don't  see  no  sea  lion,"  he  complained. 

"Right  over  there,"  replied  Peter,  "the  pitcher. 
Don't  you  see  the  man  that's  throwing  the  ball. 
That's  his  name,  Sea  Lion  Harry  Hall." 

Pat  was  enormously  disappointed.  He  had 
thought  that  maybe  it  was  some  sort  of  circus 
which  they  were  going  to  see  in  this  great  open 
park.  The  sea  lion  had  sounded  like  a  promise  of 
elephants  to  come.  He  tried  to  beat  back  his  grief, 
but  presently  tears  rolled  out  of  his  eyes.  The  best 
he  could  do  was  to  make  no  sound.  Eventually 
Peter  noticed  the  damp  tracks  across  his  face. 

168 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          169 

"What  are  you  crying  about?"  he  asked  in  sur 
prise. 

"You  said  it  was  a  sea  lion,"  sobbed  Pat,  "and  it 
isn't  any  sea  lion." 

"Oh,  that's  it.  Don't  you  understand:  his 
name's  Sea  Lion.  Just  as  they  call  you  Pat." 

"Why  do  they  call  him  a  Sea  Lion?" 

"Well,"  said  Peter,  "to  tell  the  truth  I  don't  know 
exactly.  It's  just  one  of  those  things.  I've  been 
writing  about  Sea  Lion  Harry  Hall  a  couple  of 
years  and  now  I  never  stopped  to  think  up  any  rea 
son  for  it.  It  was  smart  of  you  to  ask  me,  Pat. 
That's  right.  Don't  you  go  taking  in  things  people 
tell  you  without  asking  why.  That's  the  first  thing 
a  newspaperman  ought  to  learn.  You  just  wait 
here  a  minute  and  I'll  go  and  find  out  why  they 
call  him  Sea  Lion  Harry  Hall." 

Peter  went  over  to  the  wire  screen  which  ran  in 
front  of  the  press  box  and  called  to  a  short  little 
man  who  was  sitting  on  his  heels  and  balancing  him 
self  with  his  bat  which  he  had  dug  into  the  ground. 
The  player  straightened  up  and  came  over.  Peter 
conversed  earnestly  with  him  for  a  moment.  Then 
he  came  back.  "Now,"  he  said,  "I  know  all  about 
it.  Kid  Elberfeld— that  was  Kid  Elberfeld  I  was 


i?o          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

talking  to — he  says  they  call  him  Sea  Lion  Harry 
Hall  because  he  roars  so — just  like  a  sea  lion." 

For  the  next  half  hour  Pat  abandoned  all  thought 
of  the  game.  Peter  rattled  off  words  and  the  mean 
ing  of  them.  There  were  hits  and  errors  and  flies 
and  grounders.  Once  everybody  in  the  park  shouted 
and  stood  up  and  Peter  said  it  was  a  home  run,  but 
Pat  gave  very  little  heed  to  this.  He  paid  no  more 
attention  to  the  rooting  than  if  it  had  been  Peter 
talking  to  him.  It  was  another  sound  for  which  he 
was  waiting.  He  couldn't  be  burdened  with  learn 
ing  about  hits  and  errors  or  even  the  thing  called 
a  home  run.  What  he  wanted  was  to  hear  Sea 
Lion  Harry  Hall  roar  like  a  sea  lion.  For  hours 
Pat  heard  nothing.  The  man  just  did  his  exercises 
and  threw  the  ball.  Then  something  happened 
which  made  him  mad.  He  threw  the  ball  and  after 
it  was  thrown  he  walked  straight  up  to  a  man  in 
blue  who  had  on  a  false  face.  And  he  talked  at 
him.  Very  loud  and  hoarse  he  said,  "Jesus,  Tim, 
call  'em  right." 

"There  goes  the  Sea  Lion,"  said  Peter  who  had 
been  busy  with  something  else  and  had  caught  no 
more  than  the  rumble.  "Didn't  that  sound  just  like 
a  sea  lion?" 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          171 

Pat  scorned  to  cry.  He  did  not  even  bother  to 
say  "No."  By  now  he  knew  that  the  baseball  park 
was  the  land  of  disappointment.  It  was  a  place 
where  things  were  cried  up  with  words  which  were 
not  so.  Peter  had  said  he  would  roar  like  a  sea 
lion.  And  he  didn't.  He  was  just  a  man  who  said 
"Jesustim"  pretty  loud. 

Pat  heard  a  seal  lion  once.  "Jesustim"  didn't 
sound  anything  like  a  sea  lion. 

Interesting  inquiry  might  have  centred  around 
"Too  hot  to  handle"  if  Peter  had  used  it  earlier  in 
the  day,  but  by  the  time  it  came  Pat  knew  that  it 
was  just  a  grown  up  way  of  talking  big.  When 
Peter  said,  "That's  Birdie  Cree,"  Pat  did  not  look 
or  even  ask  any  questions.  He  knew  there  was  not 
a  birdie. 

Only  one  romantic  concept  came  to  Pat  from 
the  game. 

"That's  Tris  Speaker,  that  kid  in  centre  field," 
said  Peter. 

Of  course,  Pat  knew  that  he  really  wouldn't  be 
a  kid.  It  didn't  surprise  him  to  find  that  Tris  was 
a  man  but  he  was  quite  a  lot  different  from  pretty 
nearly  all  the  other  grown-ups  that  Pat  had  ever 
seen.  They  didn't  run  like  Tris.  Probably  they 


The  Boy  Grew  Older 

couldn't.  The  other  men  in  this  baseball  park  ran, 
but  Tris  was  the  fastest.  But  it  wasn't  just  looking 
at  him  that  Pat  liked.  He  said  the  name  over  to 
himself  several  times.  "Tris  Speaker,  Tris 
Speaker."  There  was  fun  in  the  sound  of  it.  Not 
quite  enough  for  a  whole  afternoon,  to  be  sure. 
This  was  a  park  without  sandpiles  or  a  merry-go- 
round.  And  there  were  no  policemen  to  make 
everybody  keep  off  the  grass.  Pat  wished  they 
would. 

"I  want  to  go  home,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Tired  already?"  asked  Peter.  "Well,  there's 
only  half  an  inning  more.  It  wasn't  much  of  a 
game,  was  it  ?  Too  one-sided.  But  we're  not  going 
home  right  off.  I've  got  to  go  straight  to  the  office 
and  I'm  going  to  take  you  with  me." 

In  another  ten  minutes  the  game  was  over.  "You 
didn't  like  it,  did  you?"  asked  Peter.  The  formula 
nettled  Pat. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  he  said. 

After  a  long  trip  in  the  subway  they  came  to  the 
big  building  where  Peter  worked.  Pat  had  never 
been  there  before.  At  the  end  of  a  long  corridor 
was  a  small  office  and  Peter  opened  the  door  and 
went  in.  "I've  got  to  write  the  paper,"  he  said. 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          173 

"You  keep  quiet  till  I'm  done.  Here's  the  funny 
section  for  you." 

Upon  examination  Pat  found  that  it  was  last 
Sunday's  pictures.  He  had  already  seen  the  one 
about  how  the  kids  put  dynamite  in  the  Captain's 
high  hat.  Still  he  followed  the  adventure  again. 
When  Kate  read  it  to  him  on  Sunday  it  had  made 
him  a  little  sad.  It  seemed  to  him  that  it  must  have 
hurt  the  Captain  when  Maude,  the  mule,  kicked 
him  in  the  head.  Now  he  found  a  new  significance 
in  the  last  picture.  Maude  and  the  Captain  were 
floating  in  the  air  high  above  the  roof.  Com 
ing  out  of  the  Captain's  mouth  were  marks  like  this, 

" ! !  !  !  "  And  yet  it  must  be  pleasant  to  go 

floating  away  in  the  sky  like  that.  Pat  looked  out 
of  the  window  and  he  could  see  the  river  and  the 
great  bridge.  He  would  like  to  have  a  high  hat 
and  some  dynamite  and  a  mule.  Then  he  could 
float  through  the  window  like  Davey  and  the  Goblin. 
That  would  be  better  than  sitting  there  in  the  little 
office  so  quietly  while  Peter  pounded  the  keys  of 
his  typewriter.  Peter  kept  taking  sheets  of  paper 
out  of  it  and  tearing  them  up. 

"Whatch  you  doing?"  Pat  asked  when  he  could 
keep  silent  no  longer. 


i?4          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

"Hush,"  said  Peter  very  sternly,  "you  mustn't  ask 
questions  now.  I'm  doing  a  story  for  the  Bulletin. 
That's  very  important,  I  must  do  it  right  away." 

"Why?" 

"Well,  pretty  soon  they're  going  to  put  the  paper 
to  bed."  Pat  knew  that  must  be  some  sort  of  joke. 
Papers  didn't  go  to  bed.  They  didn't  have  any 
pajamas  or  nightgowns. 

Somebody  knocked  at  the  door  and  before  Peter 
could  say  anything  Charlie  Hall  came  in.  "Is  that 
your  kid?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Peter,  "He's  my  son.  Say  hello  to 
Charlie  Hall,  Pat." 

"Well,  what's  your  name?"  said  Hall  just  as  if  he 
was  very  much  interested. 

"My  name's  Pat." 

"Tell  him  your  big  name,"  prompted  Peter.  "Go 
ahead." 

"Peter  Neale,  second." 

"I  suppose  you'll  be  down  here  doing  baseball 
yourself  pretty  soon  now  that  you're  getting  to  be 
such  a  big  boy,"  said  Hall. 

Pat  picked  up  the  funny  paper  again  and  pre 
tended  to  become  engrossed  in  it.  Charlie  Hall  was 
diverted  back  to  the  first  of  the  Peter  locales. 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          175 

"I  guess  he's  a  little  older  than  my  youngest," 
he  said.  "Let  me  see,  Joe — no,  that's  not  the  one 
I  mean — Bill  must  be  about  four  or  five  now. 
Just  around  there." 

"Pat's  older  than  that.  He  was  six  a  couple  of 
days  ago." 

"Getting  pretty  near  time  to  begin  figuring  what 
to  do  with  him." 

"I  know  that  already,"  said  Peter,  "he's  going  to 
be  a  newspaper  man.  He's  going  to  be  'by  Peter 
Neale'." 

"I'd  drown  mine,  all  six  of  'em,  before  I'd  let 
'em  go  into  the  newspaper  business." 

"What's  the  matter  with  it?" 

"It  don't  get  you  any  place.  Now  if  I  was  in 
business  I'd  be  just  getting  ready  to  be  a  president 
of  the  company  or  something.  And  as  it  is  I'm 
just  an  old  man  around  the  shop.  Forty-two  my 
last  birthday.  In  a  couple  of  years  more  I'll  be  on 
the  copy  desk." 

"That's  mostly  bunk,  Charlie.  But  even  if  it 
was  so,  haven't  you  had  a  lot  of  fun  ?" 

"What  do  you  mean,  fun?" 

"Going  out  where  things  are  happening  and  writ 
ing  pieces  and  seeing  them  in  the  paper  the  next 


The  Boy  Grew  Older 

day.  Just  writing  a  baseball  story  seems  sort  of 
exciting  to  me." 

"Hell,"  said  Charlie,  "they're  all  faked,  those  base 
ball  games.  I  wouldn't  go  across  the  street  to 
see  one." 

He  paused,  but  went  on  again  before  Peter  could 
protest. 

"It's  a  funny  thing,  but  the  longer  you  stay  in 
newspaper  work  the  more  it  gets  to  seem  as  if 
everything's  faked.  After  a  while  you  find  out  that 
all  the  murders  are  just  alike.  Somebody  sleeps  with 
somebody  and  somebody  else  don't  like  it  and  then 
you  have  what  we  call  a  'mystery'  and  we  get  all 
steamed  up  about  it.  Railroad  accidents — the  engineer 
disregarded  the  signal — fires — somebody  dropped  a 
cigarette  in  a  pile  of  waste.  My  God,  Pete,  there's 
only  about  ten  things  can  happen  any  place  in  the 
world  and  then  they  must  go  on  repeating  them 
selves  over  and  over." 

Peter  rushed  in  pellmell.  "But  don't  you  see, 
Charlie.  It's  the  writing  about  them  makes  them 
different.  A  piano  player  might  as  well  say,  'I 
haven't  got  anything  but  the  same  notes/  " 

"Well,"  said  Charlie,  "I'd  drown  all  five  of  them 
if  they  wanted  to  be  piano  players.  Maybe  there  is 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          177 

some  fun  in  writing.  I  don't  know  anything  about 
that.  But  if  a  man  wants  to  write  why  put  it  down 
some  place  where  it's  going  to  be  swept  up  by  the 
street  cleaner  the  next  day.  At  eleven  o'clock  to 
morrow  morning  all  that  stuff  you  were  writing  be 
fore  I  came  in  will  be  dead  and  rotten.  It'll  have 
to  make  room  for  the  home  edition  and  on  top  of 
that'll  come  another.  And  so  on  all  day  long.  Writ 
ing  for  a  newspaper's  like  spitting  in  Niagara  Falls. 
Anybody  that  can  write  ought  to  get  on  a  magazine 
and  do  something  that'll  last  anyway  from  break 
fast  to  dinner  time." 

"It's  no  good  for  me,"  said  Peter.  "I've  written 
for  magazines  a  little — just  sport  stuff,  you  know. 
You  do  something  and  maybe  you  like  it,  but  that's 
the  last  you  hear  about  it  for  a  month.  By  the  time 
it  comes  out  you've  forgotten  all  about  it  and  maybe 
by  that  time  it  isn't  true  anyway.  It's  like  writing 
for  posterity." 

"All  right,"  said  Charlie,  "go  on  with  your  story. 
If  you  make  it  a  good  one  maybe  there'll  be  some 
body  around  the  office'll  remember  it  clear  into 
next  week." 

Left  alone,  Peter  proceeded  at  a  furious  rate. 
Even  Pat  was  frightened  out  of  interrupting  by  the 


178          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

beat  and  pace  of  the  noise  which  came  from  the 
typewriter.  If  there  had  been  a  steam  whistle  it 
would  have  sounded  a  good  deal  like  a  locomotive. 
Soon  Peter  called  a  copy  boy  and  gave  him  the 
pages.  It  had  grown  almost  dark  now,  but  he  did 
not  switch  on  the  electric  light  immediately.  From 
the  next  room  came  the  clicking  sound  of  telegraph 
keys. 

"Do  you  hear  that,"  said  Peter.  "That's  magic. 
Some  place  there's  a  war,  or  a  king's  just  died,  or 
maybe  he's  only  sick  and  those  clicks  are  telling 
us  about  it." 

"Did  he  eat  too  much  ice  cream  and  cake?"  asked 
Pat. 

"I  don't  know.  I  can't  tell  till  somebody  writes 
it  down.  You  have  to  make  a  b  c's  out  of  it  before 
anybody  except  just  the  man  in  the  room  under 
stands  about  it." 

"Come  here,"  said  Peter,  suddenly  getting  up 
from  his  chair,  "you  sit  down  there,  Pat." 

"I  don't  want  to,"  said  Pat. 

"All  right,  I  won't  let  you  sit  in  my  chair." 

Pat  got  up  and  took  the  seat. 

"Now,"  said  Peter  earnestly,  "I  don't  want  you 
to  grow  up  to  be  a  newspaper  man,  and  I  don't  want 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          179 

you  to  come  into  this  office  after  I'm  gone." 
He  put  his  arm  around  Pat's  shoulder  and  drew 

him  close.     Then  he  took  the  boy's  hand,  the  left 

one,  and  moved  it  forward  near  the  typewriter. 
'This  is  the  desk,"  said  Peter,  "that  I  don't  want 

you  to  use." 


Book  II 


ISI 


CHAPTER  I 

PETER  was  coming  back  to  America.  He  had 
been  through  the  war  and  then  the  peace  and  he 
was  very  tired.  The  tension  of  it  all  was  still  upon 
him.  Even  though  he  lay  back  in  his  steamer  chair 
and  looked  over  the  rail  at  a  wide  and  peaceful 
ocean  the  jangle  within  him  continued.  For  him 
there  was  no  friendship  in  the  sea.  Probably  there 
never  would  be  any  more.  He  had  come  to  hate 
it  that  afternoon  on  the  Espagne  when  they  ran 
from  the  submarine.  That  was  almost  four  years  ago, 
but  Peter  had  not  forgotten.  He  had  been  playing 
poker  in  the  card-room  when  the  little  gun  on  the 
forward  deck  went  "bang!"  The  man  across  the 
table  had  his  whole  stack  of  chips  in  his  hand.  He 
was  just  about  to  say,  "I'll  raise  you,  Neale."  And 
then  he  said  nothing.  He  just  sat  there  holding 
the  chips  and  grinning.  Some  of  them  trickled  out 
of  his  hands  and  a  yellow  one  fell  on  the  floor.  The 
man  stooped  down  and  rummaged  for  it  under  his 
chair.  Yellow  chips  represented  five  dollars.  Peter 

183 


The  Boy  Grew  Older 

couldn't  stand  the  comedy  of  it.  His  capacity  for 
irony  was  limited. 

"Don't  do  that,"  he  said  sharply.  "Maybe  it's 
going  to  sink  us.  Come  on.  We  can  look  for  the 
chips  afterwards." 

Still  the  man  didn't  come.  His  right  hand  was 
trembling  but  he  held  on  to  the  cards. 

"Oh,"  said  Peter,  "you  win  if  that's  what  you're 
waiting  for.  For  God's  sake,  come  on." 

Peter  didn't  have  the  courage  to  be  the  first  man 
out  of  the  smoking-room.  He  walked  slowly 
enough  to  let  two  players  pass  him.  Going  to  his 
room  he  found  a  life  preserver  and  put  it  on 
clumsily.  Outside  in  the  hall  a  very  white-faced 
steward  was  saying  over  and  over  again,  "There 
is  no  danger.  There  is  no  danger."  Coming  out 
on  deck  a  passenger  almost  ran  into  Peter.  He 
was  dashing  up  and  down  the  deck  shouting,  "Don't 
get  excited."  Peter  saw  his  poker  friend  standing 
beside  the  rail  and  took  his  place  alongside  him. 

"There  she  is,"  said  the  man,  pointing  to  a  thing 
about  a  mile  away  which  looked  like  a  stray  bean 
pole  thrust  into  the  ocean.  "It's  the  periscope,"  he 
explained.  The  gun  on  the  Espagne  went  "bang!" 
once  more. 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          185 

"If  we  don't  get  her,  she'll  get  us,  won't  she?" 
asked  Peter. 

The  man  nodded.  The  beanpole  disappeared. 
"She'll  come  up  some  other  place,"  he  told  Peter. 

They  both  stared  at  the  ocean,  looking  for  the 
sprouting  of  the  weed.  Peter  kept  silent  for  at 
least  two  minutes.  He  held  on  to  the  rail  because 
his  right  leg  was  shaking.  The  man  must  not  know 
that  he  was  afraid. 

"What  did  you  have?"  asked  Peter.  "What  did 
you  have?"  he  repeated. 

"How's  that?" 

"A  minute  ago  when  I  dropped.  What  did  you 
have?" 

"A  king  high  flush." 

Peter  was  just  about  to  confess  his  full  house, 
but  thought  better  of  it.  "I  guess  the  submarine 
didn't  hurt  me  any,"  he  said.  "Mine  was  only 
aces  and  eights." 

His  companion  turned  and  looked  at  him.  He 
was  a  little  white,  too.  There  was  a  growing  horror 
in  his  face.  Peter  wondered  and  then  realized  the 
reason  for  the  curious  look.  Somehow  it  cheered 
him  enormously  to  find  terror  in  another.  The  man 
had  shamed  him  by  sticking  to  the  card  room  and 


1 86         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

looking  for  the  yellow  chip.  Now  Peter  could  pay 
him  back.  Even  the  huskiness  was  gone  from  his 
voice.  "Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "aces  and  eights.  That 
was  queer,  wasn't  it?  The  dead  man's  hand." 

The  beanpole  never  did  come  up  again  and  now 
in  the  year  1919  there  would  be  none  in  this  pleasant 
glassy  ocean  and  yet  Peter  couldn't  look  at  it  very 
long  without  seeing  black  stakes  rise  up  against 
him.  In  the  twenty  minutes  of  watching  which  fol 
lowed  the  remark  about  aces  and  eights  Peter 
planted  firmly  and  deeply  in  himself  another  abid 
ing  fear.  He  wondered  idly  now  whether  the  man 
who  stood  with  him,  the  name  was  Bentwick,  would 
ever  enjoy  ocean  travel  again. 

Peter  found  that  it  was  not  physically  possible 
to  be  afraid  of  everything  which  he  encountered 
in  the  war.  Everybody  had  his  pet  fear.  Peter 
specialized  on  submarines,  which  was  convenient 
since,  after  arriving  in  France,  he  saw  nothing  more 
of  warfare  on  the  water.  He  never  liked  shells, 
particularly  the  big  ones,  airplanes  or  machine  guns 
and  yet  he  could  stand  them  well  enough  to  do 
his  work.  Before  going  he  had  assumed  that  he 
would  be  unable  to  endure  the  strain  of  getting 
under  fire.  Indeed  he  told  Miles,  "You  mustn't 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          187 

expect  a  lot  of  stuff  from  me  about  how  things 
look  in  a  front  line  trench." 

Miles  had  said,  "All  right.  Give  us  the  news 
and  we  won't  kick." 

The  news  had  been  enough  to  take  Peter  into 
hell  and  keep  him  there.  Miles  had  been  smart. 
Dying  for  his  country  might  very  likely  have  been 
an  insufficient  ideal  for  Peter,  but  there  never  was 
any  place  he  refused  to  go  to  get  a  story  for  the 
Bulletin.  He  never  knew  why.  There  wasn't  any 
person  on  the  Bulletin  whom  Peter  idolized.  The 
owner  lived  in  Arizona  and  Peter  had  never 
seen  him.  The  paper  itself  was  a  person.  That 
was  what  Miles  had  seemed  to  say  that  after 
noon  in  the  office  when  he  asked  Peter  to  go  over 
as  a  war  correspondent.  "I  think  you  ought  to  go 
for  the  paper,"  he  said.  First,  of  course,  he 
teetered  back  and  forth  on  his  chair  three  times. 
"Sport  don't  look  so  important  now,"  he  began. 
"This  thing  is  much  bigger  than  baseball.  It's 
going  to  get  bigger.  The  syndicate's  selling  you  to 
one  hundred  and  ten  papers  now  but  that  doesn't 
make  any  difference,  Neale.  There's  no  good  wait 
ing  for  the  bottom  to  drop  out  of  a  thing.  We've 
got  to  beat  'em  to  it." 


t88          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  war,"  suggested 
Peter. 

"We  don't  want  war  stuff.  I  wouldn't  give  a 
damn  for  the  regular  war  correspondent  stuff.  You 
can  humanize  all  that.  You've  got  a  light  touch. 
Some  of  this  is  going  to  be  funny.  Most  of  the 
papers  are  overlooking  that.  And  mark  my  words, 
by  and  by  we're  going  to  get  in  it." 

"Maybe  it  won't  be  so  funny  then,"  said  Peter. 

Miles  paid  no  attention.  "Don't  you  see  the  big 
start  you'll  have  if  you're  already  over  there  when 
America  comes  in.  You'll  have  the  hang  of  the 
thing.  You'll  know  a  lot  more  about  it  than  most 
of  the  generals.  You'll  be  on  the  spot  to  jump 
right  into  it." 

Miles  did  not  foresee  that  by  the  time  America 
came  into  the  war  there  wouldn't  be  much  jump  left 
in  Peter.  Blood  and,  more  than  that,  a  desperate 
boredom  fell  upon  the  light  touch.  Almost  all  of 
Peter's  romantic  enthusiasm  was  spent  in  his  first 
two  years  on  the  fighting  line  of  the  English  and  the 
French.  The  American  war  correspondents  used 
to  tell  with  wonder  and  amusement  of  the  afternoon 
upon  which  Peter  started  off  to  join  the  American 
army  with  the  other  correspondents.  They  just 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          189 

filled  the  compartment,  but  a  minute  before  the 
train  left  the  Gare  du  Nord,  a  Y.  M.  C.  A.  man 
who  had  reserved  his  seat  bustled  in.  He  picked 
out  Peter  and  slapped  him  on  the  back.  "I'm  very 
sorry,  old  scout,"  he  said,  "but  you've  got  my  seat." 

Peter  got  up.  "You  can  have  the  seat,  you  son  of  a 
,"  he  answered,  "but  don't  you  'old  scout'  me." 

Whatever  romantic  feeling  might  have  been  left 
in  Peter  about  America  and  the  war  broke  on  the 
military  bearing  of  John  J.  Pershing.  Peter  was 
with  him  the  day  he  inspected  the  newly  arrived 
First  Division.  Aides  and  war  correspondents 
without  number  trailed  at  his  heels.  They  followed 
him  into  a  stable  which  had  been  transformed  into 
a  company  kitchen.  Just  inside  the  door  stood  a 
youngster  only  a  year  or  so  older  than  Pat.  He 
was  peeling  potatoes  but  when  the  General  entered 
he  dropped  his  work  and  stood  at  attention. 
Pershing  went  on  to  the  far  end  of  the  stable  and, 
as  he  passed  by,  the  boy  who  had  never  seen  the 
commander-in-chief  of  all  the  American  expedition 
ary  forces,  stole  just  a  fleeting  look  over  his 
shoulder.  Pershing  saw  him  and  strode  back,  fol 
lowed  by  all  the  war  correspondents  and  his  aides. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  he  shouted  at  the 


190          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

boy.  "You  don't  know  the  first  thing  about  being 
a  soldier."  Turning  to  a  lieutenant  he  said,  "Take 
this  man  out  and  make  him  stand  at  attention  for 
two  hours."  Not  even  the  dead  men  upon  the  wire 
ever  moved  Peter  to  the  same  violent  revulsion 
against  the  war.  Nor  did  he  have  a  chance  to  write 
it  out  of  himself.  His  cable  dispatch  which  began, 
"They  will  never  call  him  Papa  Pershing,"  did  not 
get  by  the  censors. 

Censorship  was  among  the  horrors  of  war  which 
Peter  never  thought  of  as  he  stood  in  the  office  of 
Miles.  He  was  a  little  hesitant  about  accepting  the 
assignment  and  the  managing  editor  misunderstood 
him  somewhat. 

"You'll  find  your  war  stuff  will  sell  in  time  just 
as  well  as  sports,"  he  said. 

"I've  got  enough  money,  almost  enough,"  Peter 
told  him.  "I  don't  know  what  to  do  about  Pat, 
that's  my  son.  He's  here  in  school.  He's  fourteen. 
There  isn't  a  soul  to  look  after  him." 

"Yes,"  said  Miles,  "that  makes  it  hard.  I  tell 
you  what  I'll  do.  Will  you  let  him  come  and  live 
with  me  and  Mrs.  Miles?  Next  year  he  can  go  to 
boarding-school.  This  thing  can't  last  forever. 
You'll  be  back  in  a  little  while." 


The  Boy  Grew  Older 

"Well,"  said  Peter,  "that's  nice  of  you  but  I  don't 
know  how  it'll  work  out." 

"What  are  you  planning  for  the  boy?" 

"Why,  I've  always  figured  that  as  soon  as  he  got 
old  enough  I'd  try  to  get  him  on  the  paper.  I 
want  him  to  be  a  newspaper  man." 

Miles  broke  in  so  eagerly  that  he  even  neglected 
to  do  his  three  preliminary  tilts.  "That's  fine. 
Don't  you  see  how  that  all  fits  in?  You  go  to 
France  for  us  and  I'll  promise  you  a  job  for  the 
boy  on  the  Bulletin.  You  won't  have  to  just  think 
about  it.  The  thing's  done.  He's  nominated  for  the 
Bulletin  right  now.  And  you  can  start  him  off  the 
minute  you  think  he's  old  enough.  Don't  fret  about 
that.  I'll  give  him  an  ear  full  of  shop.  Is  it  a 
bargain?" 

"All  right,"  said  Peter,  "I'll  go  over  for  the 
paper  for  a  little  while." 

The  littfc  while  lasted  almost  five  years. 


CHAPTER  II 

IT  was  a  June  night  in  the  fourth  year  of  the 
war  when  Peter  saw  Maria  Algarez.  He  was  walk 
ing  up  the  Avenue  de  1'Opera  when  a  woman  cut 
across  in  front  of  him,  turning  into  a  side  street. 
The  street  was  crowded  with  soldiers  and  women, 
sauntering  and  peering,  but  this  woman  was  walking 
fast.  She  almost  bumped  into  Peter.  They  were 
under  a  shaded  light  which  fell  on  her  face  as  she 
looked  up.  Peter  looked  at  her  without  much 
curiosity.  He  did  not  want  to  invite  friendliness. 
Hospitality  had  been  hurled  at  him  all  the  way  down 
the  avenue.  He  knew  instantly  that  it  was  Maria. 
When  she  left  him  she  had  seemed  a  child.  After 
seventeen  years  there  was  the  same  youthful  quality 
in  her  face.  The  only  change  was,  it  was  much 
more  tired.  And  there  was  paint. 

"Hello,"  said  Peter. 

Maria  smiled  at  him  without  obvious  recognition, 
but  made  no  answer. 

"I'm  Peter  Neale." 

192 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          193 

Maria's  smile  grew  broader.  "I  thought  I  have 
made  a  conquest,"  she  said,  "and  it  is  a  hus 
band." 

She  held  out  her  hand.  Peter  took  it,  but  his 
eager  surprise  at  seeing  her  was  chilled  by  a  sudden 
thought. 

"You're  not — ,"  he  said,  but  he  could  not  phrase 
it.  He  tried  again.  "You're  not  walking  here 
alone?" 

Maria's  smile  became  a  laugh.  "And  what  then?" 
she  asked. 

"Good  God!"  said  Peter  in  horror.  And  then 
almost  to  himself,  "And  it  might  have  been  any 
other  soldier  on  the  avenue." 

"There,  there,"  said  Maria,  checking  her  laughter 
and  patting  him  on  the  arm.  "It  is  not  right  for  me 
to  laugh  at  you.  I  should  not  forget  to  remember 
that  you  are  the  worrier.  You  think  that  maybe 
it  is  my  living  to  walk  in  L'avenue  de  L'Opera  and 
to  look  for  the  good-looking  soldier.  It  should 
please  that  it  is  you  I  have  selected,  Peter.  But  no, 
there,  it  is  not  so.  Come  with  me.  My  car  it  is 
around  the  corner.  Do  not  let  us  stand  here  where 
maybe  you  will  be  compromised.  We  will  drive 
to  my  studio.  There  we  can  talk." 
13 


194          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

Peter  followed  Maria  around  the  corner  where  a 
limousine  was  waiting  and  got  in. 

"How  do  you  manage  to  have  a  car  in  war  time?" 
he  asked. 

"It  is  because  I  am  the  important  person.  Yes, 
that  is  true.  You  have  not  heard  of  me,  Peter? 
Really?  That  is  so  extraordinary.  You  do  not 
know  that  I  am  the  singer?" 

"Well,"  said  Peter,  "of  course  I  heard  that 
phonograph  record  you  sent  for  Pat  but  that  was 
fifteen  years  ago.  I  never  heard  from  you  again. 
Sometimes  I  went  to  the  shops  and  asked  if  they 
had  records  of  Maria  Algarez  but  none  of  them 
had  ever  heard  of  you." 

"Pooh,"  said  Maria,  "in  America  you  do  not 
know  anything.  But  here  in  Paris  do  you  never 
hear  anybody  speak  of  Maria  Algarez?" 

Peter  shook  his  head.  "I've  been  with  the 
American  army  almost  all  the  time.  What  would  I 
know  if  I  had  heard?  What  do  they  say  about 
you?" 

"Maybe  it  is  better  that  I  should  say  it  myself," 
answered  Maria.  "The  others  might  not  make  it 
enough.  When  I  send  the  phonograph  record  so 
long  ago  I  say  in  my  letter  to  you  'the  voice  is 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          195 

magnificent.'  That  is  true.  It  is  much  more  than 
that.  Peter,  sometimes  it  makes  me  sad  that  I 
cannot  sit  off  a  little  way  and  hear  the  voice.  The 
phonograph,  it  is  not  the  same  thing.  That  is  the 
pity  of  it,  I  alone  of  everybody  in  Europe  cannot 
truly  hear  Maria  Algarez  sing.  It  has  been  the 
great  voice  in  the  world.  It  is  still  the  great 


voice." 


"Oh,"  said  Peter,  "and  that  is  what  anybody 
would  have  told  me  if  I  asked." 

Maria  shook  her  head.  "People,  they  are  not  so 
smart.  You  remember  when  I  was  a  dancer  they 
did  not  know  about  me  all  that  you  and  I,  we  knew. 
It  is  the  same  now.  They  do  not  know.  A  little, 
yes,  but  not  all." 

"But  they  realize  it  enough  to  give  you  a  job, 
don't  they?" 

"The  job,  pooh!  Yes,  the  job.  First  I  sing  in 
Comique.  I  sing  in  Russia  and  Spain  and  for  the 
seven,  eight  years  I  am  the  leading  soprano  of  the 
Paris  opera  house.  Where  is  it  that  you  hide  your 
self  that  all  this  you  do  not  know?" 

"In  mud  in  Flanders,  I  guess." 

"Yes,  it  is  not  your  fault.  The  war,  it  is  so  loud 
in  all  the  world  there  is  no  other  noise.  That  is 


196          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

why  I  go  away.  I  have  the  contract  to  sing  in 
Argentine." 

The  limousine  drew  up  in  front  of  an  apartment 
and  Maria  took  Peter  up  to  a  studio  on  the  top 
floor.  They  went  into  a  big  room  with  one  great 
window  of  glass  covering  an  entire  wall.  Through 
it  Peter  could  see  the  defense  of  Paris  aviators 
moving  across  the  skyline  like  high  riding  fire 
flies. 

"It's  a  nice  place  for  air  raids,"  suggested  Peter. 

"The  Boche — the  German — he  comes  sometime 
but  I  am  not  afraid.  You  know,  Peter,  now  I 
know  that  there  is  the  God.  It  is  something.  I 
cannot  tell  you  just  what.  But  he  is  smart.  When 
the  others  did  not  know  about  the  voice  it  was  that 
I  remembered.  He  would  know.  If  there  was 
nobody  else  he  would  be  smart  enough.  He  is  not 
silly.  Nothing  can  happen  to  Maria  Algarez." 

"Gosh,"  said  Peter,  abashed  and  puzzled  by  this 
outburst,  "I  hope  he  feels  the  same  way  about  me. 
Most  of  the  last  three  years  I've  been  needing  him 
more  than  you  do." 

Maria's  rapt  expression  faded.  "I  am  the  pig. 
All  the  time  I  talk  about  myself.  And  you,  you, 
Peter,  what  is  it  you  do  ?  You  are  the  officer,  that  I 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          19? 

know,  but  captain,  colonel,  general  that  I  do  not 
know." 

"I  see  I've  got  a  kick  coming,  too.  Where  have 
you  been  hiding?  I'm  not  an  officer.  I'm  a  war 
correspondent.  If  you  can  say  it  I  guess  I  can. 
Any  way  I  will.  I'm  the  best  war  correspondent 
in  the  world,"  Peter  grinned.  "That's  not  such  a 
joke  either.  Maybe  I  am.  Didn't  you  ever  hear 
of  my  book — 'Lafayette,  Nous  Voila?'  All  the  rest 
of  it's  English.  It  means  'Lafayette,  We're  Here.' 
I  forgot  you'd  know  that.  They've  sold  seventy- 
five  thousand  copies.  Didn't  you  ever  hear  of 
it?" 

"No,  I  have  not  heard.  I  think  you  are  still  the 
newspaper  man." 

"Well,  a  war  correspondent's  a  sort  of  a  news 
paper  man,  only  more  so.  I'm  still  on  the  Bulletin. 
That  was  my  paper  years  ago  when — when  we  knew 
each  other." 

Maria  was  almost  startled.  "The  boy,"  she  said 
suddenly.  "Your  boy,  how  is  he  ?  He  is  well  ?  He 
is  big?  What  is  it  that  you  call  him?" 

"Yes,"  said  Peter,  "bigger  than  I  know,  I  guess. 
I  haven't  seen  him  for  almost  three  years.  His 
name  is  Peter  Neale,  Jr." 


198          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

"But  you  hear  from  him?  He  writes?  What 
is  it  he  says?" 

"Well,  as  a  matter  of  fact  I  just  got  a  letter  from 
him  today.  There  isn't  anything  much  in  it.  I 
don't  know  whether  you'd  be  interested.  It's  just 
about  stuff  he's  doing  in  school." 

"Yes,  I  want  to  know  what  it  is  he  learns.  Here, 
let  me  see?" 

Peter  fumbled  in  his  pocket  and  found  Pat's 
letter. 

"Maybe  I'd  better  read  it  you.  Handwriting  is 
one  of  the  things  they  haven't  taught  him.  I  don't 
believe  you  could  make  out  his  writing." 

He  picked  up  the  letter  and  began,  "  'Dear 
Peter ' 

"  'Peter,'  it  is  so  he  calls  you?" 

"Yes  'father'  sounds  terribly  formal  to  me  and 
I  don't  want  to  be  'pop'  or  'dad'  or  anything  like 
that.  'Peter'  seems  closer.  Before  this  war  Pat 
and  I  were  pretty  chummy." 

Maria  settled  back  and  Peter  went  on  with  the 
letter. 

"  'Perhaps,  I  didn't  tell  you  about  my  joining  the 
fraternity  here  last  month.  It's  called  Alpha  Kappa 
Phi.  The  letters  stand  for  Greek  words  which  are 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          199 

secret  and  mean  friends  and  brothers  or  maybe  it's 
brothers  and  friends.  And  of  course  the  initiation 
is  secret,  but  I  guess  it  won't  be  any  harm  if  I  tell 
you  about  it.  I  had  to  report  at  the  fraternity 
house  in  the  afternoon  and  they  took  me  down  in 
the  cellar  and  put  me  in  a  coffin.  It  wasn't  really 
a  coffin,  but  a  big  packing  case  but  we  tell  the 
fellows  that  come  in  that  it's  a  coffin  and  that  scares 
the  life  out  of  some  of  them.  I  wasn't  scared  any, 
but  it  got  pretty  tiresome  lying  around  all  after 
noon.  In  the  evening  they  took  me  out  and  told  me 
they  were  going  to  put  the  initials  of  the  fraternity 
on  my  chest.  They  pretended  to  be  heating  up  an 
iron.  There  was  a  long  speech  which  went  with 
this  and  it  is  quite  beautiful.  While  they  were 
pretending  to  heat  up  the  irons  they  burned  some 
thing,  meat  I  guess,  and  it  made  an  awful  smell. 
They  did  make  me  a  little  nervous  but  when  they 
got  around  to  cutting  the  initials  in  my  chest  it  was 
just  an  electric  battery  they  had  and  they  ran  the 
current  over  my  chest.  It  hurt  a  little,  but  I  knew 
they  weren't  really  cutting  initials  and  so  I  didn't 
mind.  After  that  they  took  a  chemical  called  lunar 
caustic  and  traced  out  Alpha  Kappa  Phi  on  my  chest. 
It  didn't  do  anything  just  then,  but  the  next  day  it 


200          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

turned  all  black.  Every  time  I  took  a  shower  in 
the  gym  all  the  younger  kids  stared  at  me.  One 
asked  me  what  I  got  on  my  chest  and  I  said  maybe 
I  fell  down  in  some  mud.  After  I  was  branded 
they  took  me  up  some  stairs  and  down  some  more. 
I  was  still  blindfolded,  you  know.  They  said  to 
me,  "You  must  jump  the  last  fifteen  steps."  Well, 
I  jumped  and  it  was  just  one  step  and  it  nearly 
ruined  me.  Then  there  were  some  more  things  like 
having  to  stand  on  your  head  and  sing  the  first 
verse  of  the  school  song.  They  helped  you  a  little 
by  holding  up  your  feet.  And  you  had  to  get  down 
on  the  floor  and  scramble  like  an  egg.  Then  there 
was  something  very  impressive.  They  took  the 
bandage  off  and  I  was  standing  just  in  front  of  a 
skull.  A  man  all  in  white  read  out  about  the  secrets 
of  the  society.  It  was  quite  beautiful  but  I  can't 
remember  enough  to  tell  you.  Just  when  he  came 
where  it  said  what  would  happen  to  any  neophyte 
who  divulged  aught  on  the  sacred  scroll  of  Alpha 
Kappa  Phi,  a  great  big  tongue  of  flame  shot  out 
of  the  mouth  of  the  skull.  They  do  it  by  pinching 
the  end  of  a  piece  of  gas  pipe  and  putting  it  in  the 
mouth  of  the  skull  and  when  you  turn  on  the  gas 
the  thing  shoots  out.  That  was  about  all  except  all 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          201 

of  us  being  stood  up  against  a  wall  and  hitting  us 
in  the  tail  with  tennis  balls.  Of  course  there  was 
supper  finally  and  I  shook  hands  with  all  the 
brothers  and  they  said  most  of  them  get  scared  a  lot 
more  than  I  did.  We've  put  in  a  couple  of  lots 
since  I  got  in  and  I  certainly  got  square  with  them 
for  what  they  did  to  me.  I  suppose  you  read  in 
the  paper  about  my  kicking  a  goal  from  the  thirty- 
three  yard  line  and  winning  the  game  from  the 
Columbia  freshmen.'  " 

There  was  a  good  deal  more  about  the  game, 
almost  a  complete  play  by  play  account,  but  Peter, 
peeking  over  the  edge  of  the  letter  saw  that  Maria 
was  yawning.  He  just  put  in  a  "With  love — Pat," 
and  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  paragraph. 

"He  is  nice.  I  think  he  is  like  you,"  she  said. 
"How  old  is  he,  Peter?" 

"Just  about  seventeen." 

"Like  you  he  will  be  the  writer  for  the  Bulletin? 
Is  it  so  that  you  want  it?" 

"Yes,  I've  set  my  heart  on  that." 

"It  is  good.  He  knows  about  the  baseball  that 
you  know  and  all  your  sport.  Is  he  big  too  like 
you,  Peter?" 

"I  guess  he  must  be  by  now.     He  sent  me  a 


202          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

picture.  It's  an  enlargement  of  a  snapshot.  Just  a 
head  like  one  of  these  motion  picture  closeups." 

Maria  held  out  her  hand  casually.     "Let  me  see." 

She  took  the  picture  under  a  lamp  and  looked 
closely.  For  a  full  minute  or  more  Maria  held  the 
picture  and  stared  at  it.  She  said  nothing,  but 
Peter  was  conscious  in  some  way  that  the  casual 
mood  had  gone.  He  could  tell  that  she  was  enor 
mously  moved.  He  did  not  even  dare  break  in 
upon  her  silence.  Still  looking  at  the  picture  Maria 
whispered,  "He  is  my  son.  It  is  my  nose.  It  is 
mysnose  exactly." 

"Yes,"  said  Peter,  in  a  matter  of  fact  way,  "there 
is  quite  a  resemblance." 

Maria  waved  her  left  hand  impatiently.  "No, 
no,  it  is  not  a  resemblance.  The  rest  does  not  look 
alike.  It  is  the  nose.  That  is  not  a  resemblance.  It 
is  the  same.  It  is  my  nose.  Here  you  see,"  she 
slapped  the  bridge  of  her  nose  violently,  "so  it 
would  be  if  the  bone  it  had  been  broken.  You  see 
in  the  picture  of  my  son  it  is  the  break.  The  same. 
The  hook  in  the  nose.  But  it  is  not  broken.  Never 
it  has  not  been?" 

"Why,  no,"  said  Peter,  "his  nose  has  always  been 
like  that." 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          203 

"Yes,  yes,  it  is  from  me  he  has  it.  Yes,  and  from 
the  God.  Do  you  not  know  why  it  is  the  break  in 
the  nose?" 

"Well,  he's  got  to  have  some  kind  of  a  nose  I 
suppose." 

"But  this  kind,  Peter,  it  is  for  just  one  thing. 
It  marks  him  like  those  foolish  letters  on  his  chest 
in  the  letter.  You  cannot  read  the  marking.  I  can 
read  it  for  you.  It  says  singer,  singer,  singer.  It 
must  be.  The  singing  nose  it  is  always  so. 
Sometimes  it  is  not  so  much.  But  this  is  my 
nose.  It  says  more  than  singer.  It  says  great 
singer." 

"Well,"  said  Peter  somewhat  impatient  at  the 
fervency  of  Maria,  "he  says  in  his  letter  that  he 
sang  the  first  verse  of  the  school  song  standing 
on  his  head.  That  must  have  been  hard." 

"Yes,"  replied  Maria  fiercely,  "he  is  standing  on 
his  head.  He  writes  to  you  only  foolishness.  It 
is  about  skulls  and  jumping  steps.  And  about  the 
sport.  And  there  was  more.  I  know  you  did  not 
read  it  all.  You  have  made  him  to  stand  on  his 
head.  They  have  made  him.  He  lives  only  for 
foolishness.  The  mark  is  there  but  first  there  must 
be  work.  Years  of  work.  He  is  not  a  child  to 


204          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

jump  over  steps.  He  must  come  with  me  to  the 
Argentine." 

"Whoa,"  cried  Peter.  "We  can't  let  a  nose  run 
away  with  us.  Just  stop  and  think  a  minute.  It's 
impossible  for  Pat  to  go  to  Argentine  with  you. 
In  a  year  or  so  he  may  be  old  enough  to  go  into 
the  army.  It  would  look  as  if  he  was  running 
away." 

Peter's  attempt  at  a  conciliatory  speech  was 
conspicuously  a  failure. 

"The  army!  The  war!"  said  Maria  between 
clenched  teeth.  "That  is  the  most  silly  of  all. 
Better  he  should  stay  with  the  good  brothers  and 
jump  down  the  steps.  My  God!  Peter,  you  won't, 
you  can't  let  him  go  to  the  war.  If  there  was  in 
him  not  one  note  of  music  you  would  not  let  him. 
He  is  a  boy.  He  is  something  alive.  And  don't 
you  understand  ?  I  think  it  is  in  him  the  fire.  They 
won't  kill  him.  This  I  will  not  let." 

"All  right,  but  if  the  war  goes  on  and  he  comes 
of  age  what  can  anybody  do  about  it?" 

"I  have  much  money,  Peter.  It  can  be  all  spent 
to  save  him  if  there  is  the  need." 

"Money,  I've  got  money  too.  Lots  of  it.  That's 
all  foolishness.  It  won't  work." 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          205 

"Is  it  that  you  want  him  to  go?" 

"Damn  you,"  said  Peter,  almost  sobbing  in  his 
anger,  "you  mustn't  say  things  like  that.  He's  my 
son  too.  He  was  my  son  when  you  ran  away  and 
left  him.  I've  seen  war.  I've  got  lately  so  I  see 
it  all  from  one  angle.  Any  time  our  lines  go  for 
ward  I  think  of  them  fighting  for  just  one  thing, 
fighting  to  keep  Pat  out  of  it.  You  get  all  excited 
and  worked  up  about  a  nose  in  a  photograph.  A 
picture  of  a  boy  you  don't  even  know.  I've  wheeled 
him  in  the  park.  I  saw  him  walk  the  first  time. 
I'm  not  looking  to  save  him  because  he's  some  kind 
of  a  genius.  I  want  him  to  live  because  he's  Pat." 

"I  said  wrong,  Peter.  I  am  sorry.  Both  of  us 
we  must  wait.  It  will  be  all  right.  I  know  God 
won't  be  silly." 

Presently  Maria  said,  "I  do  not  know  him.  That 
is  what  you  have  said.  Tell  me  about  him — about 
Pat." 

Peter  did.  It  was  mostly  things  about  when 
Pat  was  a  small  boy.  He  remembered  God's  ankle 
and  told  Maria,  and  about  the  blind  giant.  She 
was  enormously  interested  to  hear  of  how  Pat  had 
picked  out  phonograph  records.  "And  mine,"  she 
said  eagerly,  "did  he  like  that?" 


206          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

Peter  lied  a  little.  "It  was  the  one  he  asked  for 
first  all  the  time,"  he  answered.  It  surprised  Peter 
that  he  remembered  so  much  about  Pat.  All  sorts 
of  little  things  which  he  hadn't  thought  of  for 
years  welled  up  in  his  mind.  Some  of  them  were 
things  that  he  had  hardly  noticed  at  the  time. 

"And  of  course  you  never  heard  about  Judge 
Krink,"  he  said.  "He  was  a  man  Pat  invented 
when  he  was  about  five  years  old.  He  used  to  tell 
me  that  he  wrote  letters  to  Judge  Krink  and  Judge 
Krink  wrote  letters  to  him.  What  did  he  say?'  I'd 
ask  him.  'Nothing/  said  Pat.  I  remember  Judge 
Krink  had  dirty  fingernails.  He  never  went  to  bed, 
I  don't  know  just  where  he  lived,  but  it  was  some 
place  in  a  garden.  He  sat  there  and  dug  dirt.  AH 
the  things  that  Pat  couldn't  do,  Judge  Krink  did, 
Maybe  I  got  asking  him  about  Judge  Krink  too 
much  because  one  day  he  said,  'I  don't  have  Judg<* 
Krink  any  more.  He's  got  table  manners.'  " 

"You  see,"  broke  in  Maria,  "it  is  not  the  truth 
when  you  said  I  do  not  even  know  him — my  son 
I  have  seen  him  many  times.  I  have  played 
him." 

"Where?"   asked   Peter,   puzzled. 

"At  the  house  of  the  Judge  Krink." 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          207 

Later  they  talked  about  themselves.  Peter  told 
Maria  about  Vonnie.  Somehow  he  could  not  bear 
to  have  her  think  that  he  had  been  altogether  deso 
lated  by  her  flight  seventeen  years  ago  or  that  he  had 
spent  his  life  entirely  in  persuading  Pat  to  eat 
spinach.  Certainly  Maria  was  not  displeased  by 
the  story.  She  smiled  cheerfully  when  told  of  the 
devastation  wrought  by  her  phonograph  record  but 
she  said,  "Oh,  Peter,  you  should  not  have  let  her 
go.  I  did  not  teach  you  enough  or  you  would  have 
broken  the  record  of  the  song."  Maria  met  con 
fession  with  confession  and  rather  overtopped 
Peter. 

"How  about  this  God  you  were  telling  me  about. 
Do  you  think  he  liked  that  ?"  he  inquired. 

"Oh,"  said  Maria,  "it  is  not  such  little  things 
about  which  he  bothers." 

"Didn't  you  ever  love  me?"  Peter  protested. 

"Not  after  the  baby,"  said  Maria.  "It  was  not 
your  fault  but  in  my  heart  I  blamed  you.  It  seemed 
to  me  the  thing  mean  and  silly.  To  be  hurt  so 
much,  that  cannot  be  good.  Now  I  am  not  so  sure. 
If  he  is  to  sing  it  cannot  be  too  much.  Nothing. 
Not  even  that." 

She  moved  to  the  piano  and  ran  over  an  air  which 


208          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

sounded  familiar  to  Peter.  "You  remember?"  she 
said. 

On  a  chance  he  guessed.  "That's  what  you 
danced  to  in  'Adios'." 

"That  is  smart.  You  remember.  It  is  the  In 
vitation  to  the  Waltz.  All  these  years  you  have 
remembered." 

"When  do  you  go  back  to  the  war?"  she  asked 
suddenly. 

"Tomorrow,"  said  Peter. 

"It  is  seventeen  years  and  you  go  away  to 
morrow."  She  came  across  the  room  and  bending 
across  the  back  of  the  chair  in  which  Peter  sat  she 
kissed  him  on  the  eyes.  "There  is  something  more 
I  want  you  to  remember,"  she  said. 

Peter  was  swept  as  he  had  been  years  ago  by  a 
gust  of  emotion.  He  started  to  get  up  but  his  legs 
were  a  little  unsteady.  Maria  moved  across  the 
room  to  the  piano. 

"Maybe,"  she  said,  "you  will  remember  me  for 
the  seventeen  years  more  if  I  sing  'Depuis  Le  Jour.'  " 


CHAPTER  III 

MARIA  went  to  the  Argentine  a  month  later  but 
Peter  heard  from  her  every  now  and  then.  Her 
letters  were  mostly  brief,  acknowledging  the  letters 
from  Pat  which  Peter  forwarded  to  her.  Occasion 
ally  he  would  supply  a  footnote  to  something  which 
Pat  had  written  if  it  touched  upon  things  which 
were  known  only  to  himself  and  the  boy  and  could 
not  be  understood  by  an  outsider  without  explana 
tion.  Or  it  might  be  that  some  sporting  reference, 
simple  enough  in  itself,  seemed  to  require  clarifica 
tion  for  the  sake  of  Maria.  For  instance  when  Pat 
wrote,  "He  tried  a  forward  pass  but  I  managed  to 
grab  it  on  the  two  yard  line  and  ran  all  the  way  for 
a  touchdown,"  Peter  added  the  note,  "A  football 
field  is  a  hundred  yards  long.  Pat's  feat  was  most 
unusual." 

But  sports  did  not  figure  quite  so  large  in  the 
letters  as  they  had  done  before.  Rather  often  the 
boy  wrote  about  books.  In  one  letter  he  outlined 
the  entire  plot  of  "Mr.  Polly"  for  Peter.  In  an- 

14  20Q 


210          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

other  somewhat  to  Peter's  astonishment  he  wrote 
"Heard  Galli  again  last  Saturday.  She  does  not 
excite  me  so  much  as  she  used  to."  Maria  returned 
this  letter  with  her  acknowledgment  and  Peter  found 
that  this  time  she  was  supplying  a  footnote.  "Galli," 
she  wrote,  "is  Galli  Curci,  an  opera  singer  with  the 
voice  and  nothing  else." 

When  the  letter  came  in  which  Pat  announced 
that  he  had  entered  the  officer's  training  school  at 
Harvard,  Peter  cabled  to  Maria.  She  replied  al 
most  immediately,  "Have  broken  my  contract,  com 
ing  back  to  Paris."  Before  she  arrived  the  armistice 
was  signed.  Peter  went  to  see  her  almost  im 
mediately.  He  wanted  to  explain  to  her  why  her 
schemes  about  Pat  were  wholly  impossible  and  he 
felt  that  now  with  the  war  issue  removed  it  would 
be  easier  to  discuss  the  matter  calmly  and  rationally, 
He  plunged  into  the  question  immediately. 

"Now  let's  both  make  a  solemn  promise,  Maria, 
to  tell  nothing  but  the  truth  without  letting  emotion 
or  anything  like  that  come  in." 

"But  then,"  objected  Maria,  "it  would  not  be  the 
truth." 

"Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean.  When  I  showed 
you  Pat's  picture  that  night  you  got  very  much 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          211 

excited.  You  said  he  had  a  nose  just  like  yours 
and  that  it  meant  he  was  all  cut  out  to  be  a  singer. 
A  great  singer  you  said.  Well,  we're  not  excited 
now.  Be  honest  with  me.  You  can't  really  tell 
anything  about  whether  he  could  be  a  singer  or 
not  just  by  looking  at  his  nose  in  a  picture.  That 
was  a  little  far-fetched,  wasn't  it  ?  I  mean  it  wasn't 
plain,  cold,  common-sense." 

"What  you  ask  me  is  a  little  hard,  Peter.  This 
common-sense  you  talk  to  me  about,  for  that  I  care 
nothing.  It  is  no  good.  It  is  not  so  that  I  see  things. 
I  was  excited  when  I  see  the  picture.  That  is  true 
but  it  makes  no  difference.  To  have  the  much  sense 
it  is  necessary  for  me  to  get  excited.  It  is  so  I  see 
things.  If  you  mean  can  I  write  it  down  on  the  piece 
of  paper  like  the  contract,  Pat  he  will  be  the  singer, 
the  great  singer,  I  must  say  no.  That  I  cannot 
promise.  But  contracts  too  I  do  not  like." 

"Yes,"  said  Peter,  "I've  observed  that." 

"But  I  feel  it,  Peter.  That  is  so  much  more. 
Can  you  not  understand?  You  have  sometimes 
maybe  look  into  the  crystal.  It  is  so  when  I  look 
at  the  picture.  Here  is  my  nose  again  in  the  world. 
It  is  for  something." 

"Maybe,"  suggested  Peter,  "it's  a  nose  for  news/' 


212          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

Maria  paid  no  attention.  "Do  you  not  see?  If 
it  is  the  failure  that  does  not  matter.  Just  so  long 
as  it  is  the  possibility  it  is  necessary  that  we  try. 

"You  don't  begin  to  understand  how  far  apart  we 
are,  Maria.  I'll  tell  you  frankly  where  I  stand. 
Even  if  I  knew  Pat  could  be  the  greatest  singer  in 
the  world  I'd  rather  have  him  a  newspaperman. 
That's  my  angle." 

"You  are  not  serious." 

"But  I  am.  Newspaper  work's  real.  It's  got 
roots  into  life.  It  is  life.  It  makes  people  in  the 
world  a  little  different.  Singing  is  just  something 
you  go  and  hear  in  the  evening." 

"For  you  it  is  enough  that  he  should  go  to  the 
baseball  and  the  football  and  perhaps  the  next  war 
and  write  the  book  'Lafayette  Voulez  Vous.'  " 

Peter  flushed.  "I  think  there's  more  sense  to 
it,"  he  said.  "And  it's  pretty  probable  that  Pat'll 
think  something  like  I  do.  We  were  together  and 
you  weren't  there.  And  we  went  around  together 
and  talked  about  Matty  and  Ty  Cobb  and  Tris 
Speaker." 

Maria  looked  a  little  puzzled. 

"You  wouldn't  know,"  said  Peter  a  little  bitterly, 
"they're  none  of  them  singers." 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          213 

"I  didn't  mean  to  be  rotten,"  he  added  hastily. 
"I'm  just  trying  to  tell  you  the  truth." 

Maria  smiled.  "It  is  all  right.  You  tell  me, 
Peter,  the  truth  your  truth." 

"Well,  you  see,  Maria,  he  is  like  me.  The  nose 
may  be  you,  but  the  rest  is  me.  It's  just  got  to  be. 
In  the  beginning  he  wasn't  anything  but  just  sort 
of  red  clay  or  he  was  like  a  phonograph  record  be 
fore  you  cut  the  tune  on  it.  He's  been  brought  up 
around  baseball  games  and  newspaper  offices.  He 
knows,  and  everybody  knows,  that  he's  coming  on 
the  Bulletin  and  will  take  my  place.  In  fact  the  job's 
been  promised  him.  I'm  not  trying  to  lay  down  the 
law.  It's  just  the  way  things  are.  I  don't  see  what 
I  could  do  about  it  even  if  I  wanted  to.  He's  all 
made  by  now.  What's  the  use  of  my  saying,  'Yes, 
let  him  go  over  and  learn  to  be  a  singer.'  It  just 
hasn't  been  put  in  him." 

Peter  paused. 

"I'm  sorry,  Maria.  The  trouble  is  he's  a  boy. 
If  he'd  been  a  girl  I'd  have  jumped  at  the  chance  to 
have  you  make  a  singer  of  him.  Newspaper  work's 
no  good  for  women." 

"And  singing,  it  is  not  good  for  men?"  asked 
Maria. 


The  Boy  Grew  Older 

"Well,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  don't  honestly  think 


it  is." 


"Peter,  I  understand  better  now  what  this  is  you 
feel,  but  it  is  not  all  the  truth  you  say.  When  I 
go  away  he  is  red  clay,  that  is  what  you  say.  It  is 
not  so  simple.  I  have  looked  at  him  then  and  to 
me  he  was  just  what  you  have  said.  But  it  is  more. 
Inside  the  clay  all  the  time  there  is  something.  The 
little  bug,  I  do  not  know  what  it  is  you  call  it." 

"Do  you  mean  germ?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so.  That  you  cannot  touch  and  I 
cannot.  So  we  do  not  need  to  talk  and  to  get  angry. 
It  is  for  him  to  say.  Is  it  not  so?" 

"Well,  within  reason — yes." 

"So!  You  go  back  to  America  and  you  make 
him  the  newspaper  man.  That  is  fair.  When  he  is 
twenty-one  you  will  come  here.  And  he  will  come. 
You  will  say  'yes'." 

"That's  almost  four  years  off." 

"The  day  I  know;  it  is  the  twentieth  in  August. 
The  year  it  will  be  1922." 

Peter  hesitated. 

"But  it  is  fair,  Peter.  You  should  like  it.  Do 
you  not  see  it  is  what  you  call  it  'sporting'." 

"You're  on,"  said  Peter. 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          215 

"There,  now  we  will  not  quarrel  any  more.  Some 
things  I  want  to  know.  You  will  tell  me.  You 
have  heard  him  singing?  Sometimes  he  sings  a 
little?" 

"I  suppose  so.  I  never  noticed  particularly. 
Yes,  I  remember  when  he  was  a  kid  he  used  to  sing 

something  that  went,  Tell  me,  pretty  maiden' 

I  can't  remember  the  rest  of  it.  He's  got  a  loud 
voice,  I  say  that  for  him.  When  he  was  playing 
out  in  front  of  the  house  with  other  kids  I  could 
always  hear  him  a  way  above  all  the  others.  I 
guess  he's  got  lungs  all  right." 

"Those  he  has  got  from  you.  If  he  is  the  singer, 
you  see,  it  will  not  be  all  my  fault." 

Maria  was  leaving  for  Spain  within  a  few  days 
and  Peter  said  he  expected  to  get  back  to  America 
pretty  soon. 

"Here  we  shall  meet  on  the  twentieth  in  August, 
in  nineteen  twenty-two,"  said  Maria.  "Good-bye, 
Peter.  I  want  you  to  bring  my  son  at  eight 
o'clock." 


CHAPTER  IV 

A  FEW  months  later  while  the  peace  conference 
was  still  raging  fiercely,  Peter  was  puzzled  by  a 
cablegram  which  he  received  from  America.  "Con 
gratulations  on  your  story/'  it  read,  "we  want  more 
just  like  it.  Convey  my  respects  to  President 

Wilson  and  tell  him  I  am  solidly  behind  him, 

Twice." 

Peter  couldn't  remember  anybody  named  Twice 
which  made  it  still  more  difficult  for  him  to  under 
stand  why  he  was  being  congratulated.  He  won 
dered  just  how  urgent  was  the  message  to  Wilson. 
Of  course  it  sounded  a  little  bit  like  somebody  on  the 
paper,  but  the  manner  was  not  that  of  Miles  even  if 
he  assumed  that  the  signature  had  been  in  some  way 
or  other  so  curiously  distorted.  Cheeves,  the  Paris 
correspondent  of  the  Bulletin,  solved  his  perplexity. 

"You're  kidding  me,"  he  said.  "It  isn't  possible 
that  you  never  heard  of  Twice.  Why,  it's  Rufus 
Twice  of  course,  but  he  always  signs  just  his  last 
name.  You  know  how  it  is  on  state  documents, 

216 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          217 

'Lansing,'  'Bryan'  or  whoever  the  current  boy  on 
the  job  happens  to  be." 

"It  doesn't  help  any  that  his  first  name's  Rufus. 
Who's  Rufus  Twice,  anyhow?" 

"Well,  since  yesterday  afternoon  he  happens  to 
be  your  boss.  He's  the  new  managing  editor  of 
the  Bulletin,  only  they  don't  call  him  that.  He's 
got  a  title.  They  call  him  Supervising  Editor." 

"He  didn't  lose  any  time  cabling,  did  he?" 

"No,  everybody  around  here  got  one." 

"Were  they  all  congratulations?" 

"All  that  I've  seen,  but  most  of  them  are  much 
briefer  than  yours." 

"How  about  this  message  I'm  to  give  Wilson,  is 
that  really  necessary?" 

"Oh,  I  guess  not.  But  the  president  ought  to 
feel  flattered  that  Rufus  Twice  is  behind  him  and 
not  about  three  feet  out  in  front  pulling  him  along. 
On  the  level,  don't  you  remember  Rufus  Twice  on 
the  Bulletin?" 

"No,  I  don't.  I've  been  away  for  years  and  years 
now.  I  don't  remember  anybody." 

"Big  black-haired  fellow.  Snappy  dresser. 
Always  made  a  point  of  coming  in  late  and  just 
barely  catching  the  first  edition." 


2i8         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

"That  fits  any  one  of  twenty  people  around  the 
shop." 

"Maybe  they  were  all  Rufus  Twice.  My  God! 
there've  been  times  when  he  seemed  like  ad  nauseam. 
You'll  remember  him  if  I  remind  you  of  the  story 
about  Twice  and  the  district  attorney." 

"Go  on.     Remind  me.     What  district  attorney?" 

"Hell !  I  can't  be  bothered  remembering  the  names 
of  district  attorneys.  He  don't  figure  anyway. 
We'll  just  call  him  Smith.  It  was  about  that  Halde- 
man  murder  case.  I  suppose  you've  forgotten  that 
too,  but  Haldeman  was  a  fellow  said  he  had  some 
thing  on  the  police  and  the  day  before  he  was  to 
spill  it  they  found  him  murdered  up  in  his  apart 
ment.  This  was  about  twelve  o'clock  at  night  and 
all  the  reporters  come  down  to  the  station.  Rufus 
Twice  is  there  and  this  district  attorney  fellow  he 
shows  up  too.  After  getting  all  the  facts  they  go 
out  for  sandwiches  and  one  of  the  reporters  says, 
'Mr.  Smith,  haven't  you  some  statement  to  make  to 
the  papers  about  this  murder/  The  district  at 
torney  just  looks  at  him  and  sits  there  trying  to 
make  up  his  mind.  And  while  he's  thinking  Rufus 
Twice  hops  in.  'I  think  Mr.  Smith  would  like  to 
say  something  about  as  follows/  he  begins.  It 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          219 

goes  on  for  about  a  thousand  words  and  when  he's 
all  done  he  turns  to  Smith  and  says,  That's  about 
right,  isn't  it?'  And  Smith  says,  'Yes.'  And  after 
that  all  through  the  case  Twice  gives  out  the  state 
ments  the  same  way  except  that  he  doesn't  bother  to 
say,  That's  about  right'  any  more." 
"Is  that  a  true  story?" 

"I  don't  know.  That's  the  way  Twice  always 
tells  it." 

As  Peter  was  going  out,  Cheeves  called  him  back. 

"Say,  I  suppose  now  that  the  cruel  peace  con 
ference  is  almost  over  you'll  be  going  back.  I 
don't  want  to  give  you  a  wrong  steer  about  Twice. 
Maybe  you  got  the  impression  from  what  I  said 
that  he's  just  a  big  bluff.  That's  only  about  ten 
per  cent  right.  He  is  a  big  bluff  but  in  addition  to 
that  he's  got  the  stuff.  You  could  make  about  ten 
of  Miles  out  of  him.  When  you  pack  up  your 
stuff  to  go  back  don't  forget  to  take  along  a  grain 
of  salt." 

There  must  have  been  something  of  prophetic 
vision  in  the  remarks  of  Cheeves  for  Peter  received 
his  message  of  recall  the  next  day.  The  cable  said, 
"Baseball  beginning  to  look  more  important  peace 
conference  stop  much  quicker  stop  we  want  you 


220          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

back  right  away  stop  advise  you  take  Espagne— 
Twice." 

Peter  looked  at  his  watch.  He  had  just  twenty- 
two  hours  to  dig  up  such  roots  as  he  had  sprouted 
during  his  four  years  in  France.  He  made  the  boat 
by  the  closest  possible  margin.  Of  course  he  would 
rather  that  it  had  been  any  vessel  afloat  except  the 
Espagne  haunted  by  the  ghost  of  what  was  probably 
by  now  a  dead  submarine.  Still  catching  the  boat 
was  a  sort  of  assignment.  And  it  was  the  quickest 
way  home.  Pat  would  be  waiting  on  the  pier  in 
New  York.  Peter  had  cabled  ahead  to  him. 


CHAPTER  V 

IT  was  a  Pat  prodigiously  grown  who  met  Peter 
as  he  came  down  the  gangplank.  Not  much  had 
altered  in  the  look  of  him  but  just  the  added  inches 
and  heft  gave  him  a  curiously  disturbing  air  of 
maturity.  Peter  would  have  liked  to  put  his  arms 
around  him  but  he  didn't  dare.  The  handshake  was 
not  adequate  and  there  was  nothing  he  could  say  to 
express  what  he  wanted  to.  It  seemed  better  not  to 
try. 

"Hello,  Pat,"  he  said. 

"Hello,  Father,"  said  the  boy. 

"Don't,"  exclaimed  Peter  almost  as  if  in  pain. 
"I've  got  a  name.  I  don't  want  to  be  father.  I  never 
have  been  father.  Four  years  oughtn't  to  do  that." 

"I'm  sorry,  Peter,"  Pat  said  it  almost  shyly. 

The  baggage  was  passed  promptly,  but  as  Peter 
was  about  to  leave  the  pier  a  man  came  up  to  him, 

"You're  Peter  Neale,  aren't  you?"  he  asked. 

Peter  nodded. 


221 


222          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

"I'm  a  reporter  from  the  Bulletin.  My  name's 
Weed.  Mr.  Twice  sent  me  down.  He  told  me 
to  tell  you  to  come  right  up  to  the  office." 

"What's  the  rush?"  asked  Peter. 

"I  don't  know.     He  didn't  say." 

"I  think  maybe  we'd  better  go,"  broke  in  Pat. 
"He  gave  me  the  same  message  for  you  yesterday. 
I  forgot  about  it." 

"What  has  he  got  to  do  with  you?"  Peter  in 
quired,  after  Weed  had  gone. 

"Don't  you  see,  when  Mr.  Twice  became  editor 
he  inherited  me  along  with  the  paper.  Mr.  Miles 
never  did  anything  much  the  last  couple  years  about 
managing  me.  He  just  turned  over  the  allowance 
you  gave  me  every  week.  Mr.  Twice  has  taken 
complete  charge.  He's  got  my  whole  life  mapped 
out." 

"What's  it  going  to  be?" 

"He's  got  it  all  fixed  up  for  me  to  go  to  Harvard 
one  more  year  and  then  start  on  the  Bulletin." 

"How  do  you  like  that?" 

"I  like  it  fine.  But  that  doesn't  make  any  dif 
ference.  It's  all  fixed  up  that  way  anyhow. 
Twice  has  made  up  his  mind  about  it." 

"I'm  obliged  to  him,  but  why  can't  he  let  me 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          223 

alone  the  first  day.  They  didn't  do  things  like  this 
on  the  Bulletin  in  the  old  days.  Here  it  is  four 
years  and  I  want  to  sit  down  some  place  and  talk 
with  you." 

They  waited  in  the  outer  office  less  than  half  an 
hour  before  a  young  woman  ushered  them  into 
Twice's  room.  Peter  had  seen  him  before.  The 
description  which  Cheeves  gave  was  not  so  very 
good  after  all.  His  hair  wasn't  very  black. 

"Glad  to  see  you  back,  Neale,"  said  Twice,  "and 
you,  Pat.  Won't  you  just  sit  down.  I'll  be  with 
you  in  a  second." 

"Miss  Nathan,"  he  called  across  the  room  to  his 
secretary,  "I  want  you  to  take  a  cablegram  to  Speyer 
in  Berlin.  Tine  story  today.  We  think  Ebert  is 
doing  constructive  service  to  humanity.  Tell  him  I 
said  so.'  And  oh,  Miss  Nathan,  let  me  know  the 
minute  that  call  from  Washington  comes  through. 
But  don't  disturb  me  for  anything  else.  I'm  going 
to  be  busy  now  for  some  time.  Don't  forget  to 
make  that  note  about  finding  out  when  Blake's  con 
tract  is  up.  I  want  to  know  about  that  the  first 
thing  in  the  morning.  And  tell  Mr.  O'Neill  not  to  go 
home  until  he  sees  me.  You  can  hold  the  rest  of 
those  letters  over  till  I  get  back  from  dinner  tonight. 


224          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

You  know  where  to  get  me.  Just  a  minute.  Take 
a  note  for  Booth.  The  Milwaukee  offer  is  far  too 
low.  Tell  'em  I've  been  thinking  it  over  and  that 
the  price  for  the  series  is  now  three  hundred  instead 
of  two.'  That's  the  cheapest  crowd  I  ever  had  to 
deal  with.  Don't  put  that  in  the  letter.  Trice  for 
the  series  now  three  hundred  instead  of  two/ 
That's  the  end  of  it." 

He  turned  to  Peter.  "It's  that  diary  of  the  sub- 
commander.  I'm  letting  a  few  selected  papers  in 
on  it.  Miss  Nathan — "  In  the  moment  of  lull 
the  secretary  had  gone. 

"Well,  Neale,  I  certainly  am  glad  to  have  you 
back  here  again.  We've  got  to  begin  to  hammer 
sports.  They're  coming  back  terrifically.  I  put  all 
the  foreign  politics  in  the  paper  because  that's  what 
I  think  the  people  ought  to  read.  Baseball's  the 
thing  that  actually  gets  'em.  If  Babe  Ruth  and 
Lloyd  George  both  died  tomorrow  Ruth  would  just 
blanket  him.  And  let  me  tell  you,  Neale,  George  is 
one  of  the  great  men  of  our  day.  I  have  a  very 
warm  personal  feeling  for  him.  I  don't  suppose 
you  remember  Delehanty." 

Peter  was  just  about  to  answer  that  he  had  seen 
him  several  times  but  he  wasn't  nearly  quick  enough. 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          225 

"Ruth  reminds  me  more  of  him  than  any  other 
player  I've  seen  in  the  game,"  continued  Twice. 
"Killed,  jumping  off  a  railroad  bridge  on  June  third, 
1902.  I've  always  made  it  a  business  not  to  be 
wrong.  Remember  that,  Pat.  It's  just  as  easy  to 
have  the  right  date  as  the  wrong  one.  It's  just  a 
knack.  Anybody  can  do  it.  Come  in  some  time 
and  I'll  explain  the  trick  for  you." 

Peter  broke  in  resolutely.  'There  was  a  man 
came  down  to  the  dock  who  said  you  wanted  to  see 
me.  His  name  was  Weed." 

"Yes,  Weed,  good  man.  I  dug  him  up  myself. 
He  came  off  a  little  paper  in  Reading.  Of  course 
he  hasn't  quite  got  the  touch  yet.  The  city's  a  little 
too  big  for  him,  but  I  think  he's  going  to  be  a  first 
rate  newsman.  Right  now  he  tries  too  hard.  He 
thinks  he's  got  to  dazzle  people.  The  result  is  he's 
just  a  little  esoteric.  A  little  too  esoteric.  I  must 
remember  to  tell  him  he's  too  esoteric." 

"What  is  it  you  want  to  do  with  me?"  asked 
Peter,  returning  to  the  attack. 

"Yes,"  said  Rufus  Twice,  "that's  why  I  asked 
you  to  come  here.  I've  been  talking  it  over  with 
Booth,  the  syndicate  man,  and  a  week  from  Mon- 
day'll  be  a  good  time  for  you  to  begin  the  sport 

IS 


226         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

column  again.  It  takes  a  little  time  to  get  momen 
tum  up  again  but  inside  of  a  year  I  think  we'll  have 
a  bigger  list  for  you  than  when  you  went  away. 
What  did  you  have  then?" 

"A  hundred  and  twelve,"  replied  Peter. 

"A  hundred  and  twelve,"  repeated  Twice.  "Yes, 
that's  just  about  right.  Well,  in  a  year  we'll  give 
you  two  hundred.  I've  got  another  name  for  your 
column.  I  don't  like  'Looking  Them  Over  With 
Peter  Neale.'  It's  a  little  amorphous.  How  do  you 
like  'Hit  and  Run?'" 

"I'm  not  sure  I  like  that  at  all,"  said  Peter. 

"That's  just  because  it  sounds  strange  to  you. 
You'll  get  used  to  it  in  no  time.  Now,  we  want 
you  to  get  your  first  column  ready  in  a  couple  of 
days.  We  want  to  have  a  good  margin  of  time 
there.  I  don't  want  to  do  any  more  than  suggest, 
but  I  believe  you  want  to  say  in  your  first  column 
that  fundamentally  there  is  a  kinship  between  war 
and  sport.  Take  a  football  quarterback  and  you 
have  the  perfect  prototype  of  the  general  in  charge 
of  operations.  The  line  plunge  gives  you  exactly 
the  same  problem  the  allies  had  in  Flanders.  If 
you  have  sufficient  preparation  the  point  of  attack 
will  be  learned  before  you're  ready.  The  quick 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          227 

thrust  must  be  a  surprise.  Then  you  have  the  for 
ward  pass.  What's  that?'* 

'Why,  I  don't  know,"  said  Peter. 

"An  air  raid,"  said  Pat. 

"Exactly.  Work  it  out,  Neale  and  you'll  find  it 
has  almost  innumerable  possibilities.  Of  course 
you  understand  this  is  just  a  suggestion." 

Miss  Nathan  ran  in  through  the  door.  "Senator 
Borah's  on  the  wire  now,"  she  cried. 

"All  right,"  said  Twice,  "I'll  be  there  in  a  minute. 
While  you  were  away,  Neale,  Miles  told  me  I  was 
supposed  to  take  a  look  after  Pat.  That  was  an 
agreement  he  made  with  you,  he  told  me.  I've  got 
that  all  fixed.  He  goes  back  to  Harvard  next  week. 
His  work  in  the  officers'  training  camp  will  count 
him  for  a  year.  That  means  he'll  be  a  sophomore 
and  can  play  football.  I  think  he  might  even  make 
the  team.  Then  the  next  year  he  comes  to  us. 
Four  years  of  college  is  too  much.  A  degree's  just 
nonsense.  I  never  got  one  and  I  wouldn't  take  an 
LL.D.  I  hope  the  arrangement's  satisfactory  to 
you.  Will  you  please  excuse  me  now?  I've  got  to 
talk  up  disarmament  in  Washington.  You  and  Pat 
come  down  and  have  lunch  with  me  tomorrow. 
Ring  me  up  at  the  house  around  noon.  It's  a 


228         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

private  number  but  Miss  Nathan  will  give  it  to  you. 
Glad  to  have  you  back,  Neale." 

He  was  gone. 

"Say,  Pat,"  said  Peter,  "how  did  you  know  a 
forward  pass  was  like  an  air  raid?" 

"Well,  you  see  I've  heard  him  do  that  a  couple  of 
times  before.  How  do  you  like  him?" 

Peter  did  not  obey  his  first  impulse  in  answering. 
He  suddenly  realized  that  Rufus  Twice  was  in  a 
position  to  offer  him  the  most  useful  sort  of  support 
in  launching  Pat  safely  and  permanently  into  the 
newspaper  business. 

"I  tell  you,  Pat,"  he  said.  "I  wouldn't  be  sur 
prised  if  he's  got  a  lot  more  sense  than  you'd  think," 


CHAPTER  VI 

"LET'S  go  and  dine  at  some  terribly  quiet  place," 
suggested  Peter  as  he  and  Pat  came  down  in  the 
elevator  from  the  office  of  Rufus  Twice.  They 
went  to  the  Harvard  Club  and  sat  in  a  corner  of  the 
dining-room  where  not  even  a  waiter  noticed  them 
for  the  first  half  hour.  Peter  was  distressed  be 
cause  he  found  it  enormously  difficult  to  talk  to 
Pat.  The  years  he  had  been  away  stood  like  a  wall 
between  them.  It  seemed  to  be  an  effort  for  the 
boy  even  to  call  him  "Peter"  as  he  had  done  for 
so  many  years.  He  was  attentive  and  respectful. 
There  didn't  begin  to  be  enough  intimacy  for  banter. 

In  reply  to  questions  Pat  said  that  he  had  spent 
almost  no  time  on  football  or  baseball  during  his 
last  year  because  the  work  at  the  officers'  training 
camp  had  been  much  too  difficult.  He  didn't  know 
whether  he  ever  could  pitch  again.  In  the  last  foot 
ball  game  at  school  he  had  hurt  his  left  shoulder  and 
it  was  still  a  little  stiff.  It  wouldn't  keep  him  from 
football  he  thought,  but  when  he  tried  to  swing  the 

229 


230          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

arm  up  over  his  head  he  got  a  twinge  in  the  bad 
shoulder.  Anyway  he  had  come  to  like  football  a 
good  deal  better  than  baseball.  Twice  had  told  him 
he  ought  to  have  a  bully  chance  to  make  the  team  at 
Harvard  but  he  wasn't  sure.  Perhaps  he  wouldn't 
have  quite  enough  speed  for  a  big  college  team. 

"I  said  something  like  that  to  Mr.  Twice,"  Pat 
added,  "and  he  jumped  all  over  me.  He  asked  me 
if  I'd  ever  heard  of  Freud  and  if  I  knew  what  an 
inferiority  complex  was,  and  I  said  I  had,  but  he 
explained  it  all  to  me  anyway." 

"What  is  an  inferiority  complex?"  asked  Peter. 

"Oh,  you  know — that  business  of  thinking  there's 
something  wrong  with  you  about  something." 

Pat  rubbed  the  lower  part  of  his  neck.  "Down 
here  in  the  subconscious  mind.  A  sort  of  a  fear  or 
shame  or  something  like  that  gets  stuck  down  there 
and  you  have  rheumatism  or  you  yell  at  people." 

"What  do  you  mean  yell  at  people  ?  Why  do  you 
yell  at  them?" 

"I  don't  know  exactly,  sir.  I  guess  it's  to  show 
'em  that  you  aren't  inferior." 

"Say,  Pat,  please  don't  call  me  'sir'  any  more." 

"I'm  sorry." 

"I  guess  there  is  something  in  that  inferiority 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          231 

thing  after  all.  I've  seen  it  lots  of  times,  but  I 
never  knew  the  name  for  it.  Lots  of  pitchers  come 
up  from  the  sticks  with  all  the  stuff  in  the  world 
and  can't  do  anything  because  they're  afraid  it's 
going  to  be  too  tough  for  them.  Say,  Pat,  you've 
got  to  pitch  again  some  time.  You  know  on  account 
of  this  war  I've  never  seen  you  pitch." 

"Oh,  yes.  Don't  you  remember  the  year  before 
you  went  away.  We  used  to  go  over  in  the  Park 
and  you'd  catch  for  me." 

"That  doesn't  count.  I  mean  in  a  game.  How 
were  you  anyway?" 

"Well,  I  guess  I  wasn't  much  good.     Not  with 
men  on  bases.     If  anything  went  wrong  I  always 
had  a  terrible  time  to  keep  from  hurrying.     I  had 
to  just  stick  the  ball  right  over." 
"Why?" 

"Well,  I  always  got  to  worrying  that  I  was  going 
to  lose  control.  In  my  head  I  could  keep  a  jump 
ahead  of  everything  that  was  happening.  I  was 
always  seeing  fellows  walking  down  to  first.  I 
didn't  mind  them  hitting  me  so  much.  It  was 
having  'em  all  walking  around  just  as  slow  as  they 
liked  that  got  my  goat.  Sometimes  I  used  to  have 
nightmares  about  it." 


23*          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

"That's  funny,  maybe  you  can't  pitch,"  said  Peter. 
"It  doesn't  make  any  difference.  You've  had  enough 
baseball  already  to  help  you  a  lot  when  you  begin  to 
write  about  it." 

Pat  made  no  reply. 

"Don't  you  think  so?"  asked  Peter  a  little  sharply. 

"Oh,  yes,  sir." 

Peter  made  no  comment.  He  realized  that  the 
sharpness  of  his  tone  had  checked  his  advance  into 
the  confidence  of  Pat.  That  business  about  the 
nightmares  was  better.  People  didn't  tell  things 
like  that  to  strangers.  He  tried  to  re-establish  the 
mood. 

"Speaking  of  nightmares,"  said  Peter.  "There's 
one  I  have  a  lot.  Mine  is  about  people  running, 
running  along  the  deck  of  a  ship.  I  guess  it's  some 
thing  left  over  from  that  time  we  had  the  fight  with 
the  submarine  on  the  Espagne.  But  there  isn't  any 
submarine  in  the  dream.  It's  just  the  people 
running  that  frightens  me." 

Pat  merely  listened.  Peter  paused  a  moment. 
"That's  curious,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  it  is,"  answered  Pat. 

A  waiter  came  up  now  and  took  the  order.  After 
he  went  away  they  were  silent.  From  the  big 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          233 

lounging-room  came  the  sound  of  a  man  more  or 
less  aimlessly  fooling  with  the  piano.  After  a 
while  Peter  broke  the  silence.  He  would  have 
liked  to  know  something  about  Pat's  thoughts  on 
this  career  which  was  being  planned  for  him,  and 
his  attitude  on  the  war  and  religion  and  women. 
"Are  you  in  love  with  anybody  and  who  is  she  and 
tell  me  about  her  ?"  Peter  would  have  liked  to  ask 
a  question  like  that,  but  he  did  not  dare. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself?"  was 
what  he  did  ask. 

"Mostly  just  hanging  around  to  find  out  what 
Mr.  Twice  was  deciding  to  do  with  me?"  Pat 
answered. 

Then  there  was  more  silence.  The  man  in  the 
next  room  was  playing  louder.  "I  wish,  he'd  either 
play  that  'Invitation  to  the  Waltz*  or  cut  it  out/' 
said  Pat. 

So  that  was  it.  The  "Invitation  to  the  Waltz."  It 
suggested  to  Peter  that  he  bid  boldly  and  offer  close 
confidence  in  the  hope  that  it  would  be  met  in  kind. 

"I  wish  he  wouldn't  play  the  Invitation  to  the 
Waltz'  at  all,"  he  said.  "That  tune  always  tears  me 
to  bits." 

He  waited  but  Pat  said  nothing. 


234          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

"I've  never  talked  to  you  before  about  your 
mother.  The  first  time  I  saw  her  she  danced  to  that 
tune  .  .  the  'Invitation  to  the  Waltz.'  She's  a 
singer  now  but  she  was  a  dancer  then.  I  don't  sup 
pose  you  even  know  her  name." 

"Yes,"  said  Pat,  "her  name  is  Maria  Algarez  and 
she's  singing  now  at  the  opera  in  Buenos  Aires." 

"How  did  you  know  that?  I  didn't  even  know 
myself  that  she  was  in  Buenos  Aires  right  now." 

"I  had  a  letter  from  her  last  week,"  explained  Pat. 

"She  writes  to  you?"  asked  Peter  in  a  good  deal 
of  surprise.  "You  mean  she  always  has  written  to 
you?" 

"Oh  no,  I  never  heard  from  her  at  all  till  during 
the  war.  It  must  have  been  a  couple  of  years  ago. 
Of  course  even  when  I  was  a  kid  I'd  heard  a  little 
about  her.  You  remember  old  Kate.  Well,  a  long 
time  ago  she  told  me  that  my  mother  was  an  actress 
and  a  very  bad  woman  and  that  I  mustn't  say  any 
thing  about  her  to  you.  I  don't  believe  I  ever  did, 
did  I?" 

"Kate  had  no  right  to  say  that.  Your  mother 
isn't  a  bad  woman.  She's  a  great  artist." 

"Well,  I  guess  I  never  worried  much  about  it  any 
way.  Maybe  I  was  a  little  sad  about  it  at  first, 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          235 

but  I've  forgotten.  And  then  all  of  sudden  I  got 
this  letter  from  Maria  Algarez.  She  said  she'd 
seen  you  in  Paris  and  that  you  showed  her  my  pic 
ture  and  she  wanted  to  write  to  me.  She  told  me  all 
about  her  singing.  After  that  I  got  a  lot  of  letters 
from  her.  She'd  say  she'd  just  been  singing  in 
'Butterfly'  and  then  she'd  tell  me  what  it  was  all 
about.  You  know  that  funny  broken  way  she  has 
of  writing  things." 

"Yes,"  said  Peter,  "I  know." 

"Well,  it  was  a  lot  of  fun.  You  see  I'd  never 
heard  any  of  these  operas  but  after  I  found  out 
about  Maria  Algarez  singing  in  them  I  used  to  go. 
If  she  wrote  that  she'd  been  singing  'Butterfly'  I'd 
go  to  the  Met  and  get  a  standup  seat  and  then  I'd 
write  to  her  and  tell  her  about  Farrar  and  all  the 
people  I'd  heard.  She'd  write  back  and  tell  me  all 
the1  things  that  were  the  matter  with  Farrar  and  the 
way  she  did  it  differently  and  a  lot  better." 

"She  never  showed  any  of  those  letters  to  me," 
said  Peter. 

"Didn't  she?"  asked  Pat  casually  as  if  it  made 
no  difference.  "Oh  yes,  I  remember  she  wrote  to  me 
once  that  if  I  told  you  about  going  to  the  opera  it 
might  worry  you  and  not  to  say  anything  about  it. 


236          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

I  don't  know  why.  She  used  to  send  me  clippings 
from  the  newspapers  with  the  things  critics  said 
about  her.  They  were  all  just  crazy  about  her." 

Peter  in  his  bitterness  was  about  to  say,  "Of 
course,  she  picked  out  the  good  ones,"  but  Pat  was 
in  full  swing  and  he  decided  not  to  throw  him  off  his 
stride. 

"You  know  I  couldn't  read  this  stuff  at  first.  It 
was  in  French  and  Spanish,  but  there  was  an  old 
fellow  that  taught  at  school  and  he  was  terribly 
excited  too  when  I  told  him  that  Maria  Algarez  was 
sending  me  these  clippings.  He'd  heard  her  sing, 
you  know.  He  used  to  translate  the  clippings  for  me 
and  he  told  me  a  lot  about  Maria  Algarez." 

"And  now,"  said  Peter,  "I  suppose  you  can  read 
them  yourself." 

"Well,  I  can  do  the  French  all  right  but  I'm  not 
much  on  the  Spanish.  You  see  the  old  French 
man,  the  fellow  that  taught  at  school,  he  was  awful 
decent  to  me.  He  used  to  give  me  extra  classes  out 
side  of  school.  You  see  we  had  a  secret  between 
us.  It  was  like  belonging  to  that  kid  fraternity  we 
used  to  have  in  high  school— Alpha  Kappa  Phi. 
That  means  something  that  nobody  else  knew.  I 
can't  remember  what." 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          237 

"Brothers  and  friends,'*  prompted  Peter. 

"How  did  you  know  that?" 

"You  told  me  about  it  in  one  of  the  letters  you 
wrote  to  me.  But  what  was  the  secret  you  had 
with  the  old  Frenchman?" 

"Why,  about  Maria.  He  told  me  not  to  let  any 
of  the  fellows  know  that  Maria  Algarez  was  my 
mother.  He  said  that  it  was  a  beautiful  romance 
but  that  here  in  America  people  wouldn't  understand 
on  account  of  American  morality  being  so  strict 
and  that  they  might  look  down  on  me." 

Peter  was  indignant.  "Beautiful  romance! 
Where  did  he  get  that  idea?  Maria  Algarez  and  I 
were  married  just  like  anybody.  Didn't  she 
tell  you  that?" 

"No,"  said  Pat  in  obvious  disappointment,  "she 
didn't." 

"I  guess  she  forgot  about  it,"  suggested  Peter. 

"It  doesn't  make  any  difference  to  me,  but  if  I 
run  into  old  Mons.  Fournier  I  won't  dare  tell  him. 
It  would  spoil  the  whole  thing  for  him.  He'll  think 
I  was  just  boasting.  Gosh  he  got  a  lot  of  fun  out 
of  it." 

"Fournier,  there's  a  Jacques  Fournier  that  plays 
first  base  for  the  White  Sox." 


238          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

' 'No,  this  man's  named  Antoine.  He's  the  old 
French  teacher  I  was  telling  you  about.  Maybe 
they're  related.  He  never  said  anything  about 
it." 

"In  these  letters  about  the  opera  and  singing  and 
all  that,"  asked  Peter,  "did  Maria  Algarez  ever 
suggest  that  you  ought  to  try  and  be  a  singer." 

Pat  broke  into  unrestrained  merriment.  "Good 
God!  no,"  he  said  and  added  quickly,  "I  beg  your 
pardon,  Father,  I  didn't  mean  to  curse  but  it  would 
be  so  funny  if  Maria'd  said  anything  like  that  about 


me." 


Peter  was  nettled.  "If  you're  going  to  call  me 
'father'  why  don't  you  call  her  'mother'  ?" 

"I'm  sorry;  I  know  you  don't  like  to  be  called 
'father'.  I  won't  do  it  again." 

"All  right,  but  you  haven't  answered  my  question. 
Don't  you  ever  think  of  calling  her  'mother'  ?" 

"Maria  Algarez?  No,  it  would  sound  so  funny. 
I've  never  seen  her.  She  doesn't  seem  like  my 
mother  or  anybody's  mother.  She's  around  sing 
ing  before  people  and  all  that.  And  look  at  her 
picture." 

He  took  one  out  of  his  pocket  and  handed  it 
across  the  table.  For  the  first  time  since  the  con- 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          239 

versation  had  turned  upon  Maria  Peter  smiled.  He 
recognized  the  picture.  He  too  had  had  one  just 
like  it  a  good  many  years  ago.  It  was  taken  two 
or  three  months  before  he  married  Maria  Algarez. 
However,  Peter  let  it  pass  without  comment. 

''What  does  Maria  say  about  what  you're  going 
to  do?"  he  wanted  to  know.  "She  hasn't  raised  any 
objections  to  your  going  into  the  newspaper  busi 
ness?" 

"No,  she  never  mentioned  that  or  anything  de 
finite.  She's  just  kept  hammering  away  at  one 
thing.  She  keeps  saying  Pat  don't  do  anything  un 
less  it's  something  you  want  to  do  very  much.  And 
she  says  if  a  man  or  a  woman  has  something  like  that 
he  wants  to  do  he  musn't  let  anything  in  the  world 
stand  in  his  way.  He  must  go  after  it." 

"Have  you  been  living  up  to  that?  Have  you 
been  doing  everything  you  wanted?" 

"Well,  no,"  said  Pat,  "not  since  Rufus  Twice 
took  me  over." 

Peter  brightened.  Maria  had  a  fight  on  her 
hands.  Rufus  Twice  was  right  behind  him  even  as 
he  had  been  behind  President  Wilson.  But  the 
next  moment  he  was  again  sunk  in  gloom.  They 
were  done  with  dinner  and  Pat  asked  with  un- 


240          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

mistakable  eagerness,  "Couldn't  we  go  some  place 
and  hear  some  music  ?" 

Peter  throttled  down  his  chagrin  but  before  he 
could  answer  Pat  added,  "Do  you  suppose  there's 
any  chance  of  our  getting  in  to  the  Follies?" 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  plans  of  Rufus  Twice  did  not  work  out  quite 
according  to  specifications.  Pat  went  to  Harvard, 
but  he  failed  to  make  the  football  team  although  he 
remained  on  the  squad  as  a  rather  remotely  removed 
substitute  quarterback.  He  was  not  even  taken  to 
the  Princeton  game,  but  he  wrote  to  Peter  that  he 
would  be  on  the  sidelines  in  uniform  for  the  game 
with  Yale  at  New  Haven.  It  was  arranged  that  he 
should  meet  Peter  immediately  afterwards  at  the 
Western  Union  office.  Pat's  letters  from  Harvard 
were  sparse  and  infrequent. 

"Football  is  the  toughest  course  I  have,"  he  wrote, 
"and  the  dullest.  Learning  the  signals  here  is  worse 
than  dates.  You  can't  even  guess  at  them.  You 
have  to  know.  Last  week  Bob  Fisher  gave  us  a 
blackboard  talk  in  the  locker-room  and  made  a  com 
parison  between  war  and  football.  It  sounded  just 
like  Mr.  Twice.  Maybe  Mr.  Twice  put  him  up  to 
it.  It's  beginning  to  seem  to  me  as  if  that  man 
ran  everything  in  this  world.  The  only  thing  I've 
16  241 


242          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

enjoyed  much  is  going  round  to  Copeland's.  He's 
an  assistant  professor  in  English.  I  take  a  course 
with  him  about  Dr.  Johnson  and  his  Circle.  I 
don't  care  anything  about  Dr.  Johnson.  He  seems 
to  have  been  the  Rufus  Twice  of  his  day.  But  I 
do  like  hearing  Copeland.  The  fellows  that  know 
him  well  call  him  'Copey/  but  I  haven't  nerve 
enough  to  do  that.  He  has  receptions  in  his  room 
at  night.  There's  a  regular  thing  he  tells  you, 
'Nobody  comes  much  before  ten  or  stays  after 
eleven'.  He  talks  about  books  and  makes  them 
exciting.  I'm  kind  of  steamed  up  about  an  English 
woman  writer  called  May  Sinclair.  I've  been  read 
ing  'Mary  Olivier.'  It  isn't  much  like  any  writing 
I've  ever  seen  before.  She  just  sort  of  sails  along 
over  a  story  and  whenever  she  sees  anything  that 
seems  important  to  her  she  swoops  down  and  collars 
it.  All  the  stuff  that  doesn't  matter  is  left  out.  There 
isn't  much  here  that  matters,  but  you  can't  leave  it 
out  because  if  you  do  the  dean  tells  you  about  it. 
Do  you  remember  that  suggestion  you  made  to  me 
that  night  we  took  dinner  at  the  Harvard  Club. 
You  remember  you  asked  me  if  I  ever  thought  any 
about  singing  myself.  I  got  rather  interested  and 
thought  some  about  going  out  for  the  Glee  Club,  but 


The  Boy  Grew  Older         243 

I  knew  Mr.  Twice  would  raise  the  dickens  if  I  didn't 
play  football.  Sometimes  we  sing  up  here  in  the 
room.  Just  swipes  you  know.  I'm  getting  so  I 
can  work  out  chords  on  the  piano.  I  don't  know 
anything  about  my  voice  because  it's  always  a  bunch 
of  us  that  sings  together.  I  do  know  though  that 
I  can  sing  a  lot  louder  than  the  rest.  I  think  if 
you're  smart  you'll  put  a  bet  on  us  against  Yale. 
Those  lickings  we  got  earlier  in  the  season  don't 
mean  anything.  We're  just  beginning  to  come 
along  now.  I  don't  know  why  I  say  'we.'  I  mean 
'they.'  I  haven't  got  anything  to  do  with  it.  Some 
how  though  I  do  get  swept  along  into  the  whole 
business.  Mr.  Copeland  was  telling  us  the  other 
night  that  we  all  take  football  a  lot  too  seriously. 
He  says  nothing  will  crumble  and  fall  down  even  if 
we  don't  beat  Yale  next  Saturday.  I  know  there's 
sense  to  that,  but  somehow  I  can't  help  caring  about 
it.  Keep  your  eyes  on  Charlie  Bullitt  when  you 
come  up  to  the  game.  When  I  watch  him  work  I 
realize  how  far  off  I  am  from  being  a  regular  college 
quarterback.  He's  got  a  bean  on  him.  I'll  see  you 
right  after  the  game  at  the  telegraph  office.  I  sup 
pose  you're  going  to  do  the  story  for  the  Bulletin. 
See  that  Harvard  doesn't  get  any  the  worst  of  it." 


244         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

Peter  did  watch  Bullitt,  but  more  than  that  he 
watched  the  huddled  crowd  of  Harvard  players  on 
the  sidelines.  He  couldn't  help  feeling  that  in  some 
way  or  other  Pat  would  finally  get  into  the  game. 
His  old  habit  of  making  pictures  beforehand  was 
with  him.  There  was  Pat  throwing  off  his  blanket 
and  running  out  to  report  to  the  officials.  Peter 
wondered  if  he  would  know  him  from  his  lofty  seat 
at  the  top  of  the  Stadium.  He  felt  sure  that  he 
would.  Still  every  time  a  Harvard  substitute  went 
in  Peter  shouted  down  the  line  to  find  out  if  at  last 
this  was  Pat.  The  picture  he  had  fashioned  for 
himself  couldn't  be  wrong.  Pat  would  run  down 
the  field  through  the  blue  team  yard  after  yard  over 
the  goal  line.  If  it  only  could  happen  to  Pat. 
Once  let  him  hear  the  roar  of  the  whole  Harvard 
cheering  section  racketing  behind  him  and  there 
could  never  be  any  more  talk  about  his  being  a 
singer  or  anything  like  that.  It  wouldn't  be  excit 
ing  enough. 

Just  to  sit  there  and  watch  made  Peter  feel  that 
he  was  a  part  of  one  of  the  most  thrilling  manifes 
tations  of  life.  When  the  British  went  over  and 
captured  Messines  Ridge  Peter  had  watched  the 
show  from  the  top  of  Kemmel  Hill.  He  and  the 


The  Boy  Grew  Older         245 

other  correspondents  knew  the  exact  second  when 
the  mines  were  to  explode.  They  all  knew  that  this 
might  be  the  decisive  push  of  the  war.  And  as  he 
waited  for  the  great  crash  which  would  show  that  the 
attack  was  on  Peter  trembled.  But  the  excitement 
didn't  begin  to  toss  him  about  as  it  did  now  when 
Harvard  was  playing  Yale.  Yes,  it  was  true  as  Pat 
had  said  that  there  wasn't  any  sense  to  it,  but  there 
it  was.  It  was  a  symbol  of  something  much  greater. 
Peter  didn't  know  quite  what.  Maybe  there  was 
some  significance  for  him  in  the  fact  that  the  Yale 
line  was  so  much  bigger  and  heavier.  Harvard 
would  have  to  win  with  speed  and  skill. 

Maria  had  always  said  that  there  was  no  song  in 
him.  He  knew  that  she  felt  he  didn't  appreciate 
beauty.  But  what  could  she  ever  show  Pat  that 
would  pound  a  pulse  like  this.  How  could  anybody 
dream  of  making  a  singer  out  of  Pat  when  he  might 
be  a  quarterback  and  after  his  own  playing  was 
done  go  on  living  the  thing  over  as  he  watched  the 
games  year  after  year.  And  perhaps  when  Pat 
came  to  write  he  could  put  in  it  this  thing  that  was 
sport,  and  beauty,  and  life  and  fighting  and  every 
thing  else  worth  while  in  life.  Perhaps  he  could  do 
the  things  that  he  spoke  of  in  the  letter  about  that 


246         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

English  novelist,  the  woman  that  sort  of  soared 
over  things  and  then  swooped  down  on  them.  All 
this  that  was  happening  belonged  to  him  and  Pat. 
Maria  and  the  boy  had  nothing  like  this  in  common. 
She  just  couldn't  have  an  ear  for  football. 

By  and  by  Peter  forgot  all  about  her.  He 
didn't  even  remember  very  much  that  Pat  was 
waiting  in  the  sidelines.  The  affair  grew  too 
desperate  to  admit  of  any  personal  considerations. 
The  one  present  and  compelling  tragedy  of  Peter's 
life  dwarfing  all  others  was  that  Yale  was  winning. 
He  had  stationed  beside  him  a  young  undergraduate 
from  New  Haven  who  was  supposed  to  give  him 
the  substitutions  in  the  Yale  lineup  and  identify  the 
Eli  who  carried  the  ball  or  made  the  tackle.  This 
young  man  had  gone  a  little  more  insane  than  Peter. 
He  paid  no  attention  to  any  questions,  but  pounded 
his  fist  on  the  great  pile  of  copy  paper  which  lay 
in  front  of  Peter  and  shouted :  "Touchdown !  Touch 
down  !  Touchdown !" 

"Don't  do  that,"  said  Peter.  He  didn't  like  the 
sentiment  and  he  hated  to  have  his  notes  knocked 
around.  The  Yale  youngster  didn't  hear  him. 
"Touchdown !"  he  screamed  again  and  almost  jarred 
Peter's  typewriter  over  the  edge  of  the  Stadium. 


The  Boy  Grew  Older         247 

A  fumble  lost  three  yards  and  halted  the  Yale 
attack.  There  came  a  punt  and  the  Harvard 
quarterback  raced  down  the  field.  Pat  had  said, 
"Watch  Charlie  Bullitt."  They  threw  him  on  the 
fourteen  yard  line. 

"Who  made  that  tackle  ?"  asked  Peter. 

"Hold  'em,  Yale !  Hold  'em,  Yale !"  chanted  the 
undergraduate  reporter. 

Suddenly  Peter  jumped  up  scattering  his  notes  all 
over  the  press  box.  His  typewriter  fell  to  the  con 
crete  with  a  clatter.  "Harvard !"  he  said,  and  then 
much  louder,  "Harvard!  Harvard!"  And  as  he 
shouted  the  ball  went  over  the  line.  It  was  only  by 
chance  that  he  happened  to  hit  the  Yale  reporter  on 
the  back  the  first  time,  but  he  was  so  swept  along 
by  the  wildness  of  the  moment  that  he  continued  to 
slap  him  violently  until  the  youngster  moved  away. 
A  little  later  there  was  a  field  goal  and  presently  the 
game  was  over  and  Harvard  had  won  by  a  score  of 
10  to  3. 

Peter  didn't  leave  the  press  box  immediately.  He 
was  much  too  shaky  to  attempt  the  journey  down  the 
long  steps  to  the  field.  The  Harvard  stands  had 
poured  out  on  to  the  gridiron  and  the  students  were 
throwing  their  hats  over  the  goal  posts.  The  Yale 


248         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

undergraduates  remained  and  across  the  field  came 
booming,  "For  God !  For  Country !  And  for  Yale  1" 
Peter  knew  that  he  would  have  to  cool  off  emotion 
ally  before  he  could  write  his  story.  That  would 
have  to  tell  who  carried  the  ball  and  when  and  how 
far.  He  couldn't  just  write,  * 'Harvard!  Harvard! 
Harvard!"  and  let  it  go  at  that.  He  must  make 
most  of  his  story  on  that  run  of  Bullitt's.  The  thing 
was  almost  perfect  in  its  newspaper  possibilities.  It 
couldn't  be  better.  The  tackle  which  stopped  the 
quarterback  on  the  fourteen-yard  line  had  knocked 
him  out.  Peter  wished  he  knew  what  Dr.  Nichols 
had  said  when  he  ran  out  to  the  player.  Then  he 
remembered  somebody  had  told  him  once  that  the 
doctor  had  a  formula  which  he  invariably  used 
when  a  player  was  knocked  out.  "What  day  of  the 
week  is  it?  Who  are  you  playing?  What's  the 
score?'*  That  was  the  test  which  must  be  passed 
by  an  injured  man  before  he  could  remain  in  the 
game. 

Suddenly  an  idea  came  to  Peter.  That  was  just 
the  touch  he  needed.  His  story  was  made.  He 
almost  jogged  all  the  way  to  the  telegraph  office. 
His  first  two  starts  were  false  ones.  Then  he 
achieved  a  sentence  which  suited  him  and  pounded 


The  Boy  Grew  Older         249 

away  steadily.  No  doubts  assailed  him.  He  was 
never  forced  to  stop  and  hunt  for  any  word.  The 
thing  just  wrote  itself.  "There's  a  little  trouble/' 
said  the  chief  operator,  "but  I  can  let  you  have  a 
wire  in  about  half  an  hour." 

"I've  got  half  of  it  done  already,"  replied  Peter. 
"Make  it  snappy."  They  were  holding  him  up  and 
he  stopped  to  look  over  what  he  had  written. 

"Cambridge,  Mass.,  November,  19—  By  Peter 
Neale— The  Harvard  worm  turned  into  a  snake 
dance.  Tied  by  Penn  State,  beaten  by  Centre  and 
by  Princeton,  the  plucky  Crimson  eleven  made  com 
plete  atonement  this  afternoon  when  it  won  from 
Yale  by  a  score  of  10  to  3. 

"Joy  came  in  the  evening.  Harvard  did  all  its 
scoring  in  the  dusk  of  the  final  period.  The  Crim 
son  backs  showed  that  they  were  not  afraid  to  go 
home  in  the  dark. 

"Charles  K.  Bullitt,  quarterback,  who  weighs  156 
pounds,  earned  most  of  the  glory.  In  the  past  this 
slight  young  man  has  been  valued  chiefly  for  his 
head  work.  He  is  rather  a  delicate  piece  of  think 
ing  machinery  and  it  has  been  the  custom  to  guard 
him  a  little  from  the  bumps  of  the  game.  His  role 
has  been  like  that  of  a  chief  of  staff. 


250         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

"The  customary  procedure  is  for  Bullitt  to  peer 
calmly  over  the  opposing  lines  and  then  make  a  sug 
gestion  to  one  of  the  bigger  backs  as  to  where  it 
might  be  advisable  for  him  to  go.  In  general  his 
acquaintance  with  the  ball  has  been  only  a  passing 
one.  He  is  expected  merely  to  fair  catch  punts  and 
not  to  run  them  back.  Indeed  for  the  last  two  years 
Bullitt  has  fairly  thought  his  way  into  a  place  on  the 
Harvard  team. 

"But  today  the  scholar  in  football  suddenly  be 
came  the  man  of  action.  He  proved  that  he  could 
function  from  the  neck  down.  Standing  at  mid- 
field,  late  in  the  third  period,  Bullitt  received  a  punt 
from  Aldrich.  He  switched  his  tactics.  Instead  of 
playing  safe  he  began  to  run.  Leaving  his  philo 
sophic  cloister,  he  plunged  headlong  into  life.  And 
it  was  life  of  the  roughest  sort,  for  Yale  men  were 
all  about  him.  Fortunately  for  the  little  anchorite 
of  the  football  field  he  had  achieved  a  theory  during 
his  sheltered  meditations  and  it  worked.  Whenever 
a  Yale  tackier  approached  him  he  thrust  out  one  foot. 
And  then,  just  to  fool  the  foe,  he  took  it  away  again. 

"The  zest  of  living  gripped  him  and  he  went  on 
and  on  over  the  chalk  marks.  .  It  seemed  to  him  that 
the  rigors  of  existence  had  been  overstated. 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          251 

Drunk  with  achievement  he  set  no  limit  on  his  jour 
ney.     But  the  Yale  tacklers  did. 

"In  the  end  the  world  was  too  much  with  him. 
Disillusion  came  in  the  form  of  two  tacklers  in  blue 
who  hurled  themselves  upon  him.  Their  hands 
touched  him  and  held  tight.  Down  went  Bullitt. 
The  big  stadium  turned  three  complete  revolutions 
before  his  eyes.  Pinwheels  danced.  From  a 
distance  of  approximately  one  million  miles  he  heard 
thousands  of  people  crying  'Harvard!  Harvard! 
Harvard!'  Curiously  enough  they  were  all 
whispering.  And  then  he  lost  consciousness. 
After  several  quarts  of  water  had  been  poured  over 
Bullitt  he  came  to.  Dr.  Nichols  the  physician  of  the 
Harvard  team  was  standing  over  him.  The  doctor 
waited  while  Bullitt  blinked  a  couple  of  times  and 
then  he  propounded  his  stock  questions  which  he 
always  uses  after  a  player  has  been  knocked  out. 
The  test  of  rationality  was,  'What  day  is  it? 
Whom  are  you  playing?  And  what's  the  score?' 
Dr.  Nichols  was  gravity  itself  but  Bullitt  grinned  and 
answered,  Tt's  Saturday,  November  nineteenth. 
We're  playing  Yale  and  the  score  is  three  to  nothing 
against  us  but  Harvard's  going  to  get  a  touchdown 
damn  soon.' 


252         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

"Dr.  Nichols  gave  it  as  his  professional  opinion 
that  Bullitt  was  rational.  Four  minutes  later  as  the 
Crimson  swept  over  the  line  for  a  touchdown,  he 
knew  it." 

Just  as  he  finished  rereading  his  story  the  wire 
chief  came  in  and  announced  that  he  had  the  Bulle 
tin  looped  up.  Before  Peter  could  hand  him  the 
copy  Pat  walked  into  the  office.  Peter  felt  just  as 
he  had  done  at  the  pier.  He  wanted  to  throw  his 
arms  around  Pat.  "It  was  wonderful,  wasn't  it?" 
he  cried.  "That's  the  greatest  game  I  ever  saw  in 
my  life." 

"Yes,"  said  Pat,  "I  guess  it  was  a  good  game. 
Have  you  finished  your  story?" 

"Just  the  lead.     Do  you  want  to  see  it?" 

"All  right." 

"The  wire's  waiting  for  me.  Hand  it  over  a 
sheet  at  a  time  as  soon  as  you  get  done." 

Peter  turned  to  his  typewriter,  but  he  couldn't  go 
on.  He  kept  watching  Pat.  He  waited  to  hear 
him  say  something.  Pat  read  on  to  the  end  without 
comment.  Then  he  looked  up.  "Where  did  you 
get  that  story  about  Charlie  Bullitt  and  Doc 
Nichols?" 

"I  didn't  get  it.     I  knew  that  they  said  something 


The  Boy  Grew  Older         253 

to  each  other  and  I  thought  that  would  be  about 
it." 

'The  part  about  Nichols  is  all  right.  Those  are 
the  questions  he  always  asks,  but  Charlie  Bullitt 
wouldn't  have  said  anything  like  that.  Don't  you 
know  how  serious  they  take  football.  They'd  put 
a  man  off  the  squad  for  making  jokes  like  that.  He 
winked,  did  he?  They  shook  him  up  a  long  ways 
beyond  winking.  I  don't  believe  he  said  it  at  all. 
Who  told  you  anyway?" 

"I've  said  nobody  told  me.  It's  just  one  of  those 
things  that  might  have  happened." 

"Don't  stand  there  holding  on  to  that  cop)," 
Peter  added  in  exasperation.  "The  wire's  wait 
ing." 

"But  you're  not  going  to  send  it,  are  you?  It's 
not  true.  It  doesn't  even  sound  true." 

"I'm  writing  this  story,"  said  Peter.  "Hand  it 
in." 

"All  right." 

Pat  carried  it  to  the  operator  in  the  next  room. 
Peter  began  to  write  again  but  all  the  zest  and  ex 
citement  of  it  was  gone.  He  had  to  fumble  around 
and  look  at  his  notes.  Nothing  went  right.  It  was 
almost  three  quarters  of  an  hour  before  he  got  to 


254         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

the  last  page.  Pat  sat  across  the  table  from  him 
saying  nothing. 

"All  done,"  said  Peter  at  last.  "Where  shall  we 
go?" 

"I  don't  care." 

"Maybe  there's  a  party  for  the  team  that  you've 
got  to  go  to." 

"I  don't  have  to  go.     I'm  not  going." 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Pat.  You'd  think 
Yale  had  licked  us.  Are  you  sore  because  you 
didn't  get  into  the  game?" 

"No,  I  knew  I  wouldn't  get  in.  Pretty  near  the 
whole  squad  would  have  to  be  struck  by  lightning 
before  I  got  in.  That  wasn't  it.  I  found  out  this 
afternoon  that  Copeland  was  right.  The  thing 
doesn't  matter.  It's  silly  to  get  so  worked  up  about 
it." 

"What  made  you  think  that?" 

"You  remember  that  man  that  dropped  the  punt 
in  the  first  quarter,  that  fumble  that  gave  the  Elis 
the  chance  for  their  field  goal." 

"Yes,  I  remember.  He  had  it  square  in  his 
hands  and  muffed  it." 

"Well,  that  was  Bill  French.  I  know  him  better 
than  anybody  else  on  the  squad.  He's  a  corker. 


The  Boy  Grew  Older         255 

They  hauled  him  out  right  after  that  muff  and  as  he 
came  off  one  of  the  coaches  said  something  to  him. 
I  don't  know  what,  but  he  flopped  down  on  the  seat 
right  beside  me  and  began  blubbering  like  a  kid. 
He  was  trying  not  to,  you  understand,  but  just  bawl 
ing  away/' 

"Oh,  he'll  forget  about  all  that  by  tomorrow/' 
"No,  he  won't  and  nobody  else  will.  They  won't 
let  him  forget.  He'll  be  'the  man  that  dropped  the 
punt.'  If  we  hadn't  won  he'd  be  around  thinking  of 
committing  suicide.  It's  just  rotten.  There 
oughtn't  to  be  things  like  that." 

"Well,  you  can't  have  any  kind  of  a  real  struggle 
without  somebody  suffering." 

"Then  let  'em  suffer  for  something  worth  while. 
The  thing's  all  dolled  up  in  the  newspaper  stories. 
You  come  along  with  that  yarn  about  Bullitt  saying, 
We're  going  to  get  a  touchdown  damn  soon'  and 
all  that  stuff  about  his  getting  knocked  out." 
"Well,  he  did  get  knocked  out,  didn't  he  ?" 
"You  bet  your  life  he  did  but  it  wasn't  all  nice 
and  pretty.  Pinwheels  and  whispering  cheers  in 
his  ears  and  all  that.  You  weren't  close  enough  to 
see  what  happened  when  Jim  came  out  with  the 
sponge." 


256         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

"What  did  happen?" 

"He  put  his  lunch,  but  that  isn't  pretty  enough  to 
get  in  your  story." 

"That's  not  going  to  disable  him  for  life." 

"I  didn't  say  it  would.  He  was  just  a  sick  pup 
and  he  would  have  liked  to  go  off  some  place  and  lie 
down.  But  you  can't.  I'd  die  for  dear  old  Har 
vard  and  all  that.  He  had  to  get  up  and  go  on  with 
it.  If  you  don't  you're  a  quitter  and  you  haven't 
got  any  guts.  I  tell  you  I  think  it's  damn  rot.  It's 
phoney  like  your  story." 

"Maybe  you'll  have  a  chance  to  write  a  better  one 
some  day,"  said  Peter.  He  had  hard  work  to 
steady  himself.  He  didn't  believe  Bullitt  had  been 
hurt  any  worse  than  he  was  at  that  moment.  Pat 
didn't  answer. 

"Wasn't  there  anything  that  gave  you  any  kick  all 
afternoon?"  asked  Peter  after  a  pause. 

"Sure,  just  one  thing.  It  was  the  Yale  stands 
singing  'Die  Wacht  Am  Rhein.'  I  know  they've 
got  terribly  silly  words,  but  there  is  something  that 
has  got  guts.  I  think  that's  just  about  ten  times  as 
exciting  as  all  the  football  games  ever  played. 
There  was  our  crowd  tooting  away,  'Hit  the  line  for 
Harvard,  for  Harvard  wins  today'  and  that  big  song 


The  Boy  Grew  Older         257 

with  all  those  marching  feet  in  it  throbbing  over 
across  the  field." 

"German  feet,"  objected  Peter. 

"Well,  but  they  are  feet  and  you  can't  take  the 
beat  and  the  sweep  out  of  it.  Maybe  we  did  win 
the  game  but  they  did  sing  the  heads  off  us." 

"Another    moral   victory    for    Yale,"    suggested 

Peter. 
it 


CHAPTER  VIII 

WHEN  Peter  came  into  his  office  one  afternoon 
a  couple  of  weeks  after  the  Yale  game  he  found 
Pat  sitting  at  his  desk  waiting  for  him. 

"I'm  through/'  said  Pat. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"Well,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  they're  through  with 
me.  They've  fired  me." 

Pat  looked  across  the  desk  expectantly  awaiting 
a  question.  Peter  didn't  ask  it.  "I'm  sorry,"  was 
all  he  said. 

"You  know  about  it.  I  suppose  you  must  have 
the  letter  from  the  dean  by  now.  It  took  me  three 
days  getting  back  from  Cambridge." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  it.  You  can  tell 
me  if  you  want  to." 

"Well,  I  got  fired  the  worst  way.  It  wasn't  just 
flunking  courses.  I  didn't  even  mean  to  do  it.  Not 
ahead  of  time  anyway.  It  just  sort  of  happened." 

Peter  waited  and  then  suddenly  he  remembered 
his  interview  with  Miles  years  ago,  the  day  he  came 


The  Boy  Grew  Older         259 

to  the  office  in  bandages  and  was  never  offered  a 
chance  to  tell  about  it.  A  question  would  be  kinder. 

"What  happened,  Pat?"  he  asked. 

"The  proctor  reported  me.  I  had  a  girl  in  my 
room.  No,  that's  slicking  it  up  and  making  it  sound 
romantic  and  pretty.  What  I  mean  is  I  had  a 
woman  in  my  room.  You  know  ...  a  woman." 

"I  know,"  said  Peter. 

"You  remember  I  was  low  in  my  mind  after 
the  football  game.  It  let  me  down.  I  don't  care 
what  I  wrote  you  before  the  game.  I  really  did 
think  it  was  going  to  be  fine.  I  thought  I'd  get 
stirred  by  it  and  after  it  was  all  over  the  only 
things  I  remembered  were  Bill  French  sitting  on 
the  side-lines  crying  and  Charlie  Bullitt  out  on  the 
field  putting  his  lunch.  You  don't  mind  if  I  tell  it 
this  way — the  long  way." 

"Take  your  time." 

"Well,  I  know  it  sounds  silly,  but  it  seemed  to  me 
that  I  just  had  to  go  out  and  find  something  that  was 
thrilling  and  beautiful  too.  I  saw  this  girl — this 
woman — walking  across  Harvard  Square.  It  was 
night  and  raining  and  blowing.  The  wind  was 
almost  carrying  her  along.  You  know  it  made  her 
seem  so  alive." 


260         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

He  paused  again.  Peter  could  not  resist  an 
impulse  to  break  into  the  story.  "She  said  to  you, 
'Come  along'  or  a  something  like  that,"  he  suggested. 

"No,  I  spoke  to  her.  I  said,  'Why  get  wet?'  It 
was  dark  and  we  sneaked  up  the  stairs  in  Weld  to 
my  room.  And  then  it  wasn't  beautiful  at  all." 
Pat  buried  his  head  in  his  hands. 

This  time  Peter  did  put  his  arm  around  his 
shoulders.  "That's  right,"  said  Peter,  "it  wasn't 
beautiful.  You  couldn't  know  that.  Nobody  ever 
does.  I  didn't." 

Pat  looked  up  and  in  the  second  he  had  snapped 
back  to  normal.  The  shame  had  gone  somewhere; 
into  Peter's  protecting  arm  perhaps.  He  managed 
a  smile. 

"Peter,"  he  said,  "there's  something  more  I'm 
sorry  about.  I'm  sorry  for  what  I  said  about  that 
football  story.  It  was  a  good  football  story.  A 
peach  of  a  story — all  but  that  part  about  Charlie 
Bullitt  and  Dr.  Nichols." 

Peter  grinned  back  at  him.  "That's  my  weakness. 
I  can't  help  being  a  little  yellow  sometime." 

A  sudden  elation  swept  over  Peter.  Here  at  last 
was  a  secret  shared  just  by  him  and  Pat.  Of  course, 
the  Dean  of  Harvard  College  and  the  proctor  and 


The  Boy  Grew  Older         261 

the  woman  who  walked  in  the  rain  knew  about  it,  but 
they  didn't  count. 

"The  proctor  saw  her  when  she  was  going  out," 
Pat  added  just  to  finish  up  the  story.  There  they 
left  it  and  went  on  to  talk  of  other  things  but 
presently  Miss  Nathan  came  in. 

"Mr.  Neale,"  she  said,  "Mr.  Twice  wants  to  see 
you  in  his  office. " 

Peter  got  up.  ''No,"  she  said,  "it's  Mr.  Pat  Neale 
he  wants  to  see.  He's  been  asking  for  him  for  a 
couple  of  days  now.  I  told  him  that  he  was  here 
this  afternoon." 

"What's  Twice  want  to  see  you  for,  I  wonder?" 

"I  know,"  said  Pat.  "I've  just  thought  of  it.  He 
must  have  got  the  Dean's  letter.  Don't  you  re 
member  it  was  Mr.  Twice  arranged  about  my  going 
to  Harvard  before  you  got  back?  I  suppose  they 
think  he's  still  my  guardian." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  come  in  with  you?" 

"Never  mind.  Now  that  I've  got  it  off  my  chest 
once  I  guess  I  can  do  it  again." 

Pat  was  gone  for  almost  three  quarters  of  an  hour. 
Peter  walked  up  and  down  nervously.  He  wondered 
what  was  happening.  From  across  the  transoms  of 
Twice's  office  he  could  hear  just  the  rumbling  of 


262         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

the  editor's  voice.  Pat  didn't  seem  to  be  saying 
anything.  At  last  he  came  back. 

"What  did  he  say  to  you?  He  seemed  to  be 
raising  Cain." 

"No,  he  didn't  say  anything  much.  At  least  not 
much  about  the  Dean's  letter.  He  had  that  all 
right.  He  got  talking  to  me  about  Krafft-Ebing." 

"Oh,  was  that  all?" 

"No,  there  was  more  than  that.  I  report  down 
here  for  work  on  Monday." 


"The  trouble  with  him,"  said  Rufus  Twice,  "is 
that  he  doesn't  seem  to  understand  that  you've  got 
to  have  a  certain  routine  in  a  newspaper  office. 
Deering  tells  me  that  he  hardly  ever  gets  in  at  one 
o'clock.  Along  about  two  he  calls  up  on  the  phone 
and  wants  to  get  his  assignment  that  way.  And 
last  night  Warren  says  that  he  called  up  after  ten 
and  said,  'It's  raining  like  hell.  You  don't  really 
want  me  to  go  out  and  cover  that  story,  do  you?' 
Warren  told  him,  'Oh  no,  Mr.  Neale.  I  didn't  know 
it  was  raining.  Of  course,  if  this  keeps  up  we  won't 
get  out  any  paper  at  all.'  " 


The  Boy  Grew  Older         263 

Peter  couldn't  laugh  because  Twice  was  telling 
him  of  the  reportorial  shortcomings  of  Pat.  He 
spoke  to  Pat  about  it  when  he  got  home  to  the 
apartment.  The  old  flat  in  Sixty-sixth  Street  was 
again  theirs. 

"But  I  get  such  lousy  assignments,"  said  Pat.  "I 
think  Deering's  down  on  me.  I  suppose  I've  given 
him  cause  all  right,  but  he's  taking  it  out  on  me. 
He  sends  me  where  there  isn't  any  chance  of  getting 
anything.  If  I  do  write  something  it  never  gets  in 
the  paper  anyway.  I  did  tell  him  it  was  raining. 
What  was  the  use  of  my  getting  wet  for  nothing? 
They  wanted  me  to  go  up  to  a  meeting  of  the  trustees 
of  the  Museum  of  Natural  History.  Now  what 
could  I  get  out  of  that?" 

"Didn't  you  go  up?"  said  Peter  aghast.  "He  was 
just  being  sarcastic  when  he  told  you  there  wouldn't 
be  any  paper  if  the  rain  kept  up." 

"Oh,  I  know  that.  The  Bulletin  comes  out  every 
day  all  right.  That's  the  trouble  with  it,  but  I  took 
him  up  literally  on  what  he  said.  I  don't  think  the 
joke  was  on  me.  It  was  on  him." 

"You  shouldn't  do  things  like  that." 

"Suppose  I  had  gone.  There  wouldn't  have  been 
any  story  anyway." 


264         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

"You've  got  to  quit  supposing.  Let  the  city  editor 
do  that.  The  worst-looking  assignment  may  turn 
out  to  be  something  if  you  go  after  it." 

"Yes,  once  in  every  twenty  years  those  directors 
of  the  Museum  of  Natural  History  get  into  an  awful 
row  about  whether  to  put  the  ichthyosaurus  on  the 
second  floor  or  in  the  basement  and  if  anything  like 
that  happened  they'd  turn  over  the  whole  front  page 
to  me." 

Peter  shook  his  head  gloomily.  "You've  got  the 
wrong  spirit.  Even  if  your  assignments  are  no  good 
keep  your  eyes  and  your  ears  open  when  you  go 
round  the  city  and  something  will  turn  up.  That's 
the  way  to  show  them.  Bring  in  something  you 
pick  up  yourself.  Every  day  of  the  year  there  must 
be  whole  pagefuls  of  stuff  just  as  good  and  better 
than  the  stuff  we  get  in  the  paper.  Only  we  don't 
rind  out  about  it.  Keep  scouting  for  stuff  like  that. 
When  you  say  newspaper  work's  stupid  you're 
practically  saying  that  life's  stupid." 

"Maybe  it  is,"  said  Pat,  "but  I'm  not  so  sure  about 
that  as  I  am  about  newspapers." 

"It's  the  same  thing." 

"I  don't  think  so.  Here's  the  sort  of  thing  that 
makes  life  amusing  and  isn't  worth  anything  for 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          265 

a  newspaper.  I  was  riding  in  one  of  those  B.  R.  T. 
subway  trains  the  other  day  and  there  were  two 
women  sitting  next  me  on  one  of  those  cross 
seats.  One  was  fat  and  middle-aged  and  the  other 
was  younger.  I  didn't  notice  her  so  much.  It  was 
the  fat  one  who  was  doing  the  talking.  She  was 
very  much  excited  and  she  was  explaining  something 
to  the  younger  woman.  'Why,  I  said  to  him,'  she 
told  her— I  said  to  him,  'Why,  Mr.  Babcock,  I  don't 
want  to  be  sacrilegious  but  that  girl  she's  so  sweet 
and  so  pretty  I  don't  even  believe  our  Lord  himself 
could  be  mean  to  her/  That  made  me  satisfied  with 
the  whole  day,  but  imagine  coming  in  and  trying  to 
put  it  over  on  Warren  or  Deering  for  a  story/' 

"A  story's  got  to  begin  some  place  and  end  some 
place,"  objected  Peter. 

"The  kind  I  get  don't  begin  any  place  and  so  I 
don't  have  to  wait  around  for  them  to  end." 

Peter  went  to  Rufus  Twice  and  told  him  that 
Pat  didn't  seem  to  be  making  any  progress  in 
general  work. 

"You  ought  to  be  more  patient,  Neale,"  answered 
Twice.  "What's  all  this  hurry  about  Pat?  He 
won't  be  twenty-one  yet  for  a  couple  of  years." 

"It's  nearer  than  that.     It's  just  thirteen  months 


266         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

and  three  days."  Peter  could  have  told  him  the 
hours  and  the  minutes  too  which  lay  between  Pat 
and  his  eight  o'clock  appointment  in  Paris. 

"That  doesn't  make  him  exactly  aged.  He's 
learning  or  he  ought  to  be  learning  all  the  time. 
Even  if  he  didn't  get  a  line  in  the  paper  all  year  he 
wouldn't  be  wasting  his  time.  Just  being  here 
helps  him  to  pick  up  my  way  of  doing  things.  Of 
course,  when  I  say  'my'  I  mean  the  paper's." 

"All  that's  perfectly  true,  Mr.  Twice,  but  I  have  a 
very  special  reason  for  wanting  him  to  get  ahead 
right  now.  I  want  him  to  be  interested.  I  want  him 
to  feel  that  he's  important." 

"There  isn't  any  job  around  here  that  isn't 
important.  You  ought  to  know  that,  Neale.  None 
of  us  count  as  individuals.  We're  all  part  of  the 
Bulletin.  Nobody  can  say  that  one  cog's  more 
important  than  another.  Did  you  ever  see  a  Liberty 
motor  assembled?" 

"Yes,"  said  Peter  with  as  much  haste  and 
emphasis  as  he  could  muster,  but  it  was  probably  the 
convenient  ringing  of  the  phone  which  saved  him. 

"If  Mr.  Boone  has  anything  to  say  in  reply  to 
the  story  we  printed  this  morning  he's  welcome  to 
come  to  my  office  and  see  me.  That  is  if  he's  got 


The  Boy  Grew  Older         267 

facts.  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  resent  his  making 
his  complaint  through  an  advertising  agency.  I 
don't  care  if  I  am  impolite.  I  intend  to  be.  Don't 
bother  to  threaten  me  about  your  advertising.  You 
can't  take  it  out.  I'll  beat  you  to  that.  It's  thrown 
out.  Good-bye." 

Twice  swung  his  chair  around  and  faced  Peter. 
"I've  just  cost  the  paper  $65,000  a  year  in  advertis 
ing,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "The  Dubell  Agency  was 
trying  to  bawl  me  out  about  that  Sun  Flower  Oil 
story  we  had  on  the  front  page  this  morning.  Did 
you  see  it?" 

"Well,  I  saw  the  headlines,"  said  Peter  un 
truthfully. 

"I  want  you  to  read  it.  Weed  did  it.  I  told  you 
I  was  going  to  make  something  out  of  that  young 
man.  Let's  see,  what  were  we  talking  about?" 

Peter  almost  said,  "The  Liberty  Motor,"  but 
stopped  himself  in  time.  "We  were  talking  about 
Pat." 

"Oh  yes,  I  remember.  I  suppose,  Neale,  you  and  I 
could  say  without  egotism  that  we're  important  cogs 
here  on  the  Bulletin.  I  suppose  sometimes  it  seems 
to  us  that  we're  vital  cogs,  but  if  you  should  die 
tomorrow  the  Bulletin  would  come  out  just  the  same. 


268         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

Fd  give  you  a  good  obit  but  work  would  go  on. 
Nobody  is  indispensable.  Pat's  got  to  get  it  through 
his  head  that  he's  just  part  of  an  army." 

"I  think  he  has,"  said  Peter,  "but  the  trouble  is 
he  feels  that  he's  got  a  permanent  assignment  on 
kitchen  police." 

"But  consider  this,  Neale.  I  didn't  seduce  Pat 
away  from  college  and  on  to  the  Bulletin.  I 
did  promise  him  a  job  and  he's  got  it.  He  can't 
expect  to  hang  around  here  for  a  year  or  so  and 
jump  right  in  and  write  lead  stories.  What  is  it 
you  want  me  to  do  anyway?" 

"Well,  I  thought  maybe  it  would  be  a  good  thing 
to  shift  him  over  on  sports.  He  knows  baseball  and 
football  and  I'd  like  to  have  him  come  out  with  me 
and  do  notes  of  the  games  and  things  like  that. 
That  would  be  down  his  alley.  That  would  interest 
him  and  I  think  he  could  do  it." 

"I  don't  think  it's  the  best  way.  I  think  you're 
forgetting  that  general  news  is  the  backbone  of  a 
paper.  All  the  rest  is  tacked  on.  You're  wrong  but 
I  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I'm  going  to  yield  to  your 
judgment.  Go  in  and  tell  Clark  that  I  want  Pat 
to  report  to  him  from  now  on.  Go  and  send  Pat 
in.  I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  him.5' 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          269 

Peter  ran  into  Pat  late  that  night  in  the  News 
paper  Club. 

"Did  Twice  get  hold  of  you?"  he  asked. 

"He  certainly  did,"  said  Pat.  "He's  decided  to 
take  me  off  general  work  and  put  me  on  sports.  His 
idea  is  to  send  me  around  with  you  to  football  games 
and  baseball  and  have  me  write  notes.  You  know 
diamond  Chips'  or  'Hot  Off  The  Gridiron.'  " 

"Did  he  say  anything  else  to  you?" 

"Yes,  he  asked  me  if  I'd  ever  seen  a  Liberty 
Motor  assembled  and  I  said,  'No,'  and  he  told  me 
about  it.  Oh  yes,  and  he  said,  'When  a  reporter 
goes  out  on  a  story  there  are  four  things  he  ought  to 
remember— When !  Where !  What !  and  Why !'  " 

"What's  the  matter  with  that?"  Peter  felt  that 
Pat  ought  to  show  a  little  more  delight  and  gratitude 
at  being  fairly  launched  on  his  career  as  a  sporting 
writer. 

"Well,  I  tried  it  out  on  that  assignment  I  had  to 
cover — the  directors  of  the  Museum  of  Natural 
History.  It  worked  out  like  this — When — last 
night.  Where — the  palatial  apartment  of  Mr. 
Harold  Denny  at  605  Park  avenue.  What — the 
annual  report  of  the  directors  of  the  Museum  of 
Natural  History.  Why — God  knows." 


270          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

Pat  was  busily  engaged  with  three  other  men  in 
a  game  called  horse  racing.  Each  contestant  had 
two  pool  balls  and  all  were  lined  up  at  one  end  of 
the  table  with  a  piece  of  board  behind  them.  The 
starter's  job  rotated  among  the  players.  He  sent 
the  balls  spinning  up  the  table  and  the  one  which 
landed  nearest  to  the  rail  on  the  rebound  won  the 
purse.  Peter  wanted  to  talk  to  Pat,  but  he  seemed 
anxious  to  get  away. 

"There's  a  newspaper  man  over  in  the  corner  that 
I'd  like  to  have  you  meet,"  said  Peter. 

"Who  is  it?" 

"His  name's  Hey  wood  Broun.  He's  on  the 
World." 

"Which  one  do  you  mean?  The  one  with  the 
shave?" 

"No,  the  other  one." 

"I'm  too  busy,"  said  Pat.  "I  can't  be  bothered. 
We're  just  going  to  run  the  Suburban  Handicap. 
That  costs  fifty  cents  for  each  horse." 

As  the  balls  were  shoved  away  Pat  raced  down  the 
table  with  them  shouting,  "Come  on  Ulysses.  Come 
on  James  Joyce."  He  ran  over  to  Peter  with  a 
handful  of  coins.  "Ulysses  won,"  he  said,  "and 
James  Joyce  was  second." 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          271 

"What  do  you  call  them  that  for?" 

"They're  named  after  a  book  I've  been  reading." 

Peter  was  about  to  head  up  town,  but  Pat  urged 
him  to  stay.  "Stick  around  awhile,"  he  said,  "as 
soon  as  Nick  Carter  shows  up  the  quartette's  going 
to  have  a  concert." 

"What  quartette?" 

"Oh  just  me  and  three  other  fellows.  We're 
pretty  good.  At  least  I  am.  We  get  in  a  few  swipes 
almost  every  night." 

"Are  you  still  going  to  the  opera  so  much?"  asked 
Peter  anxiously. 

"No,  I  haven't  had  any  time.  There  isn't  any 
opera  now  anyway  but  it's  almost  a  year  since  I've 
been." 

"Have  you  heard  from  Maria  lately?" 

"The  last  letter  I  got  was  almost  six  months  ago. 
She  didn't  say  anything  much  except  she  said  that 
before  long  she  was  going  to  see  me  in  Paris.  I 
don't  know  how.  You  haven't  heard  Mr.  Twice 
say  anything  about  giving  me  an  assignment  over 
there,  the  annual  meeting  of  the  house  committee 
of  the  Louvre  or  anything  like  that?" 

"He  hasn't  said  anything  to  me  about  it." 

Peter  didn't  wait   for  the  singing  nor  was  he 


272          The  Boy  Grew  Older 

particularly  worried  about  it.  He  was  cheered  by 
the  fact  that  Pat  had  spoken  so  casually  of  the  opera 
and  of  Maria.  When  he  got  home  to  the  flat  he 
noticed  a  big  book  in  blue  paper  covers  on  the  table. 
It  was  "Ulysses"  by  James  Joyce. 

"Why,  that's  the  book  Pat  named  the  pool  balls 
after/'  He  picked  it  up  and  began  at  the  beginning 
and  then  skipped  ahead  frantically.  An  hour  or  so 
later  Pat  came  in.  Peter  pointed  to  the  book  and 
looked  at  him  reproachfully. 

"What  does  it  mean,  Pat?"  he  asked.  Stumbling 
over  it  at  random  he  read: 

''In  a  giggling  peal  young  goldbronze  voices  blended 
Douce  with  Kennedy  your  other  eye.  They  threw 
young  heads  back,  bronze  gigglegold,  to  let  f  reefly  their 
laughter,  screaming,  your  other,  signals  to  each  other, 
high  piercing  notes." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Pat.  "I  haven't  got  that  far 
yet.  But  what  difference  does  it  make  what  it 
means?  That  isn't  the  point.  There's  music  in  it." 

As  Peter  was  going  to  bed  he  cursed  silently  to 
himself.  "Damn  this  music.  They're  even  trying 
to  play  it  on  typewriters  now." 


CHAPTER  IX 

ON  sports  Pat  worked  better  and  more  cheerfully. 
It  was  Pat  who  devised  the  note  at  one  of  the 
Princeton  football  games,  "The  Tiger  eleven  has 
three  fine  backs  and  the  greatest  of  these  is  Ghar- 
rity."  And  he  came  through  splendidly  when  he 
was  assigned  to  cover  Marshal  Foch's  activities  at 
another  game  and  report  in  detail  what  the  French 
man  did.  Peter  found  the  story  posted  on  the  board 
in  the  Bulletin  office.  In  fact  Twice  had  allowed 
Pat  to  have  his  signature  in  the  paper.  Right  after 
Peter's  own  story  it  came — "By  Peter  Neale,  Jr." 

This  was  the  third  reading  for  Peter  but  he  could 
not  resist  the  pleasure  of  standing  in  front  of  the 
board  in  the  City  Room  and  looking  over  it  again 
slowly : 

"Ferdinand  Foch,  field  marshal,  was  outranked  this 
afternoon  by  Malcolm  Aldrich,  captain.  The  Field 
Marshal  was  received  enthusiastically  by  the  80,000 
spectators  but  he  found  he  could  not  hold  the  attention 
of  the  throng  once  the  whistle  had  blown.  He  became 
then  just  a  spectator  at  one  of  the  greatest  football 
18  273 


274         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

games  ever  played  between  Yale  and  Princeton.  Come 
to  think  of  it  he  was  rather  less  a  part  of  the  proceed 
ings  than  the  young  men  in  the  cheering  section  be 
hind  him.  Foch  did  not  have  a  blue  feather,  or  a  girl, 
or  a  bet  on  the  game.  The  greatest  military  leader  in 
the  world  was  assigned  today  to  the  humble  job  of  being 
just  a  neutral.  He  must  have  known  that  momentous 
things  were  happening  when  40,000  roared  defiance  and 
another  40,000  roared  back.  Undoubtedly  he  was 
stirred  when  huge  sections  of  the  Bowl  turned  into 
fluttering  banks  of  orange  and  black,  or  of  blue,  but 
probably  there  was  much  of  it  which  he  could  not 
understand.  It  would  be  hard,  for  instance,  to  explain 
to  a  man  who  had  been  at  Verdun  the  justice  of 
penalizing  anybody  for  holding,  nor  did  the  rival  teams 
pay  any  respect  to  the  slogan  'They  shall  not  pass!' 
They  did  it  all  the  time. 

"The  young  American  officer  detailed  to  help  the  dis 
tinguished  visitor  did  his  best.  'You  see,  Marshal/  he 
would  explain,  'it's  this  way.  Yale  has  la  balls  on 
Princeton's  35-yard  line  and  it's  premier  bas  with  dix 
yards  to  go.'  Just  at  that  point  Aldrich  or  O'Hearn 
would  tear  through  the  Tigers  for  a  run  and  the 
American  officer  grew  so  excited  that  he  would  lose 
the  thread  of  his  explanations.  Foch  never  did  catch 
up." 

"It's  just  the  way  I  would  have  written  it  myself," 
thought  Peter. 

Pat  was  grinning  when  he  found  him.  "How  did 
you  like  my  parody?"  he  asked. 


The  Boy  Grew  Older         273 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Didn't  you  see  yourself  in  that  story  about  Foch. 
That  business  about  They  shall  not  pass'  ought've 
tipped  you  off.  I  thought  that  was  a  regular  Peter 
Neale  touch." 

"Oh,"  said  Peter,  "you  were  just  fooling." 

"But  here's  the  best  of  it,"  added  Pat.  He  held 
out  a  letter  from  Rufus  Twice  which  read : 

"Dear  Pat,  I  want  to  congratulate  you  on  the  story 
you  wrote  about  Foch  at  the  football  game.  It  was 
excellent.  All  the  facts  were  there  and  you  handled 
them  with  a  fresh  and  original  touch  of  your  own. 
When  I  saw  the  Marshal  at  luncheon  today  he  said 
he  was  very  much  amused  by  our  story — Twice." 

"Well,"  said  Peter  a  little  bitterly,  "if  that  was 
just  an  imitation  keep  it  up." 

Pat  did  keep  it  up  although  he  grew  a  little  restive 
during  the  winter.  "If  they're  going  to  be  many 
more  of  these  indoor  track  meets,"  he  complained, 
"I  want  to  be  put  back  on  the  Museum  of  Natural 
History.  Clark  there  in  the  sporting  department  is 
just  crazy  about  facts.  You  have  to  squeeze  them 
all  into  the  first  paragraph.  Even  if  anything  ex 
citing  ever  did  happen  there  wouldn't  be  any  chance 
to  tell  about  it.  You'd  have  to  start  out  just  the 


276         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

same  and  say  how  many  people  there  were  in  the  hall 
and  what  the  temperature  was  and  whether  it  was 
raining  or  snowing  outside." 

Still  he  had  conformed  with  sufficient  fidelity  to 
remain  in  the  graces  of  the  powers  on  the  Bulletin 
and  when  Summer  came  around  Pat  was  assigned 
to  go  with  Peter  to  Atlantic  City  and  watch  Jack 
Dempsey  train.  Pat's  part  was  to  write  a  half 
column  of  notes  called  'Sidelights  On  The  Big 
Show.'  After  the  first  day  or  so  Pat  lost  interest 
in  the  actual  boxing  at  Dempsey's  camp. 

"Where  do  you  see  anything  in  that?"  he  asked 
Peter  as  they  sat  at  the  ringside  in  the  enclosure  near 
the  training  camp  of  the  champion.  Dempsey  was 
whaling  away  with  both  hands  at  Larry  Williams, 
an  unfortunate  blonde  heavyweight  who  seemed  to 
be  under  a  contract  or  some  other  compulsion  to  go 
two  rounds  every  day. 

"Watch  him,"  exclaimed  Pat  as  Williams  clinched 
desperately  and  tucked  his  head  over  Dempsey's 
shoulder.  "He  looks  like  an  old  cow  leaning  over 
a  fence." 

"That's  a  good  line,"  said  Peter,  "don't  waste  it 
on  me.  Use  it  in  the  Bulletin." 

But  Pat  wandered  off  and  loafed  around  the 


The  Boy  Grew  Older         277 

training  quarters.  When  he  came  back  to  the  hotel 
late  that  afternoon  he  had  something  else. 

'This  is  all  right,  isn't  it?"  he  asked.  Peter 
looked  over  the  copy  which  Pat  had  written. 

"Dempsey  is  taking  a  great  deal  of  electricity  into  his 
system,"  he  read,  "in  preparation  for  his  fight  with 
Carpentier.  This  portion  of  his  training  is  being 
handled  by  S.  J.  Foster,  D.C.M.T.,  chiropractor, 
mechano-therapist  and  electrical  therapeutist.  In  other 
words  Doc  Foster  is  the  man  who  rubs  Dempsey  after 
his  workouts.  But  the  rubbing  is  only  a  small  part  of 
it.  Doc  Foster  insists  on  that.  His  chief  pride  and 
reliance  is  the  polysine  generator.  'Why,  that  machine/ 
said  Doc  Foster,  this  afternoon,  'has  got  some  currents 
in  it  that  would  break  your  arm  in  a  minute.  Yes,  sir, 
they'd  break  your  arm  quicker  than  that/  And  as  he 
boasted  he  looked  rather  longingly  at  the  fattest  arm 
of  the  fattest  newspaper  correspondent.  Of  course, 
there  are  more  soothing  currents  as  well  in  the  polysine 
generator.  'They  just  reach  down  after  the  deep 
muscles/  the  old  Doc  explained,  'and  grab  'em/  He 
neglected  to  add  just  what  the  electricity  does  with 
the  deep  muscles  after  it  has  grabbed  them.  Presumably 
it  does  not  break  them,  but  just  frolics  around  with  the 
muscles  and  then  casts  them  aside  like  withered  violets." 

"Sure,"  said  Peter,  "that's  fine.  You  don't  have 
to  bother  with  Larry  Williams  at  all.  I'll  put  all 
the  stuff  about  him  into  the  lead." 


278         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

Next  morning  Peter  awoke  with  a  splitting  head 
ache.  Toward  noon  it  got  much  worse.  He  called 
Pat  in  from  the  next  room.  "I'm  up  against  it,"  he 
told  him.  "I'm  sick  as  a  dog.  Of  course  I  could 
telegraph  to  the  office  and  get  them  to  send  some 
body  down  but  I  don't  want  to  do  that.  This  is  your 
chance.  You'll  have  to  do  the  lead  story.  You  say 
you  can  imitate  me  or  parody  me  or  whatever  you 
call  it.  Now's  the  time  to  go  to  it.  And  say  nobody 
has  to  know  that  I'm  not  doing  it.  Just  sign  your 
story  'by  Peter  Neale.'  " 

"I'll  do  my  best,"  said  Pat.  Peter  dozed  off  late 
that  afternoon  and  the  doze  became  a  deep  slumber. 
He  did  not  wake  until  morning  when  there  came  a 
violent  rapping  on  his  door.  In  the  hall  was  a  mes 
senger  with  a  telegram.  Peter  opened  it  and  read : 

"What  happened?  We  didn't  get  the  story.  Never 
mind  telephoning  explanations  because  I'm  coming 
down  over  the  week-end.  I'll  be  at  the  hotel  at  one — 
Twice." 

Pat  was  nowhere  around  the  hotel  and  nobody 
seemed  to  know  where  he  had  gone.  Peter  was 
still  mystified  when  Rufus  Twice  arrived.  He 
thought  at  first  of  trying  to  conceal  the  fact  that 
Pat  had  acted  as  his  substitute  and  then  decided  not 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          279 

to.  "It  isn't  fair  to  expect  me  to  do  as  much  as 
that,"  he  thought.  However  he  found  that  any  such 
deception  would  have  been  useless. 

"What  happened  to  you?"  was  Twice's  first 
question. 

"I  was  sick.  I  had  a  blinding  headache  and  I  told 
Pat  to  do  the  story.  Didn't  he  send  anything?" 

"Yes,  but  it  might  as  well  have  been  nothing. 
All  we  had  to  go  by  was  the  A.  P.  Dempsey  cut 
loose  yesterday  and  knocked  Larry  Williams  down 
three  times.  The  last  time  they  had  to  carry  him  out 
ck  the  ring.  And  our  story  was  something  about  a 
man  named  Daredevil  Oliver  that's  doing  a  high 
dive  at  an  amusement  park  down  here.  It  was 
signed  Peter  Neale  but  I  knew  it  couldn't  be 
you." 

Twice  picked  some  copy  out  of  his  pocket  and 
flourished  it  in  the  air.  "Lights.  Gray  mist.  East 
wind,"  he  read.  "Good  God !  Peter,  nobody  can  say 
I  don't  appreciate  Walt  Whitman  or  Amy  Lowell, 
but  I  tell  you  Dempsey  knocked  Larry  Williams 
down  three  times.  The  last  time  he  was  out  clean 
as  a  whistle." 

"You  mean  to  say  there  wasn't  any  Peter  Neale 
story  in  the  paper?"  asked  Peter  terrified. 


28o         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

"Yes,  you  get  off  all  right.  You  don't  suffer  any. 
I  did  it  myself.  I  rewrote  the  A.  P.  and  signed 
your  name.  But  it  was  just  the  merest  chance  that 
I  happened  to  drop  in  at  the  office.  You  should  have 
called  me  up  and  let  me  send  a  man  down." 

"But  I  didn't  know  he'd  blow  up  like  that.  The 
other  story  he  did  from  here  seemed  all  right." 

"Yes,  but  it  wasn't  news.  I  think  Pat  can  write 
but  somebody's  got  to  stand  over  him  and  tell  him 
what  news  is.  The  one  he  sent  might  have  been  all 
right  for  an  editorial  page  feature  though  it  was  a 
little  esoteric.  What  do  you  suppose  'gigglegold' 
means  or  is  that  something  the  operator  did?" 

"I  don't  know  what  it  means  but  it's  a  word  James 
Joyce  uses  in  'Ulysses.' ' 

"I'd  forgotten,"  said  Twice.  "Of  course.  I  was 
trying  to  place  it.  Great  book,  'Ulysses,'  never 
should  have  been  suppressed.  But  you  couldn't  use 
any  of  it  on  the  sporting  page." 

"Was  it  all  like  that?" 

"Pretty  much.  It  was  about  this  Daredevil 
Oliver  doing  a  high  dive  of  a  hundred  and  five  feet 
into  four  feet  of  water.  And  there  were  only  nine 
people  there  to  watch  him  and  how  ironic  it  would 
have  been  if  he'd  broken  his  neck.  And  then  some 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          281 

more  about  Eugene  O'Neill  and  the  tragic  drama  in 
America.  Jack  Dempsey  or  Larry  Williams'  or  the 
fight  never  got  mentioned  at  all." 

Pat  came  in  without  knocking.  He  was  flushed 
and  angry.  "Mr.  Twice,"  he  said,  "that  story  in  the 
Bulletin  signed  Teter  Neale'  wasn't  the  story  I 
sent.  I  wouldn't  have  written  anything  like  that." 

"I  know  it,"  said  Twice,  "that's  why  I  wrote 
it." 

"Didn't  you  go  down  to  see  the  workout?"  asked 
Peter. 

"Of  course  I  did.  I  didn't  stay  all  through  it.  I 
waited  until  Jack  Dempsey  knocked  that  old  cow 
Larry  Williams  down  for  the  third  time  and  then 
I  got  bored  and  went  out.0 

"But  that  was  the  story,"  cried  Peter.  "Can't  you 
see  that." 

"Why  Dempsey  could  knock  out  Larry  Williams 
a  hundred  times  in  an  afternoon/'  objected  Pat. 

"That  isn't  the  point,"  Twice  broke  in.  "News 
isn't  things  that  might  happen.  News  is  things  that 
do  happen.  When  a  reporter  goes  out  on  a  story 
there  are  four  things  for  him  to  remember." 

"I  know,"  said  Pat.  "When!  Where!  What! 
and  Why!" 


282         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

"Yes,  and  there  are  two  ways  of  doing  a  story. 
One  of  them  is  the  way  I  want  it  to  be  done.  The 
other  doesn't  count.  I  don't  want  you  to  argue  with 
me.  I  tell  you  that  your  story  should  have  been 
about  Larry  Williams  getting  knocked  out.  Some 
day  you'll  learn  why.  Pat,  I'm  not  going  to  fire  you. 
You've  got  stuff.  Deering's  had  a  crack  at  you  and 
so  has  your  father.  Now  I'm  going  to  see  what  I  can 
do.  You're  to  go  back  to  New  York  this  afternoon. 
Report  at  my  office  on  Monday.  Hereafter  you'll 
get  your  assignments  from  me  and  turn  your  copy 
over  to  me.  I've  never  been  licked  yet  and  I'm  not 
going  to  be  licked  now.  I'm  going  to  make  a  news 
paperman  of  you  or  my  name's  not  Rufus  Twice." 

After  Twice  had  gone  Peter  asked,  "Pat,  what 
made  you  want  to  throw  me  down?" 

"You  don't  think  I  made  all  this  trouble  for  you 
on  purpose?" 

"Well,  why  did  you  go  and  write  a  story  about 
Daredevil  Oliver  and  leave  Dempsey  out  of  it?" 

"It  seemed  so  much  more  important  to  me.  You'd 
have  thought  so  too  if  you'd  seen  him.  He  just 
leaned  back  off  the  platform  so  slowly.  He  could 
have  stopped  himself  any  second.  And  then  all  of 
a  sudden  he  couldn't.  And  he  started  to  fall." 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          283 

"But  the  story  was  signed  with  my  name.  Didn't 
you  think  of  that?" 

"Of  course  I  did." 

"Didn't  you  remember  that  I'd  get  blamed  for 
it." 

Pat  was  pale  with  earnestness  and  almost  crying. 
"I  didn't  think  anybody'd  be  blamed.  I  wanted  to 
do  something  for  you." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  asked  Peter  in  surprise, 
"that  you  thought  it  was  as  good  a  story  as  I'd 
write." 

"I  thought  it  was  a  better  story.  It  was  a  better 
story  than  you  ever  wrote." 

Peter  was  silent  with  astonishment.  Where,  he 
wondered,  did  his  son  Peter  Neale,  second,  ever  un 
earth  such  amazing  and  audacious  confidence. 
Suddenly  it  came  to  him  that  he  was  not  the  only  par 
ent.  He  remembered  Maria.  Obviously  there  was  no 
use  in  arguing  with  Pat  any  further.  Indeed  he  was 
almost  a  little  frightened  at  so  bold  a  blaze  of 
spirit. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  length,  "what  are  you  going  to 
do?" 

"I'm  going  to  report  to  Mr.  Twice  on  Monday," 
answered  Pat. 


284         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

Peter  sent  down  and  got  a  "Bulletin"  in  order  to 
find  out  just  what  it  was  that  Peter  Neale  had 
written.  He  read  only  the  first  line,  "Can  Jack 
Dempseysock?  Ask  Larry  Williams." 


CHAPTER  X 

NOT  until  after  the  big  fight  did  Peter  get  back  to 
the  Bulletin  office.  He  found  a  subdued  and  cheer 
less  Pat.  "How  are  things  going?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  learning  a  trade,"  said  Pat. 

Rufus  Twice  was  more  optimistic.  "He's  getting 
along  fine,"  he  reported.  "I  flatter  myself  that  he's 
picked  up  more  of  the  newspaper  angle  on  things 
in  the  last  two  weeks  than  he  got  in  a  whole  year 
before  this.  You  see  I  call  him  into  the  office  every 
afternoon  and  go  over  the  paper  with  him  and  show 
him  why  we've  used  each  story  and  the  reason  for 
handling  it  the  way  we  do.  He's  been  a  good  soldier. 
I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  You  take  your  vacation 
next  week  and  I'll  let  him  go  with  you.  You  ought 
to  have  a  month  but  I  don't  believe  the  syndicate  can 
spare  you.  Three  weeks  is  the  best  I  can  do." 

Peter  and  Pat  planned  to  go  out  in  the  country 
some  place,  but  they  kept  putting  it  off  and  two 
weeks  were  gone  before  they  decided  on  Westport, 
Conn.,  and  bought  the  tickets.  On  the  morning  set 

285 


286         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

for  the  journey  Pat  came  into  Peter's  room  with  the 
paper. 

"Don't  let's  go,"  he  said. 

"All  right  but  why  not." 

"Maria  Algarez  is  here.  They've  got  her  picture 
in  the  Bulletin.  It  isn't  a  very  good  one.  She  got 
in  from  Argentine  yesterday  afternoon." 

"Maria  Algarez  here  in  New  York?    Where?" 

"It  doesn't  say." 

A  messenger  arrived  with  a  letter  a  few  hours 
later.  Peter  opened  it  and  read : 

"You  must  not  hide  from  me.  I  have  called  up  the 
Bulletin  and  they  say  you  are  not  there.  When  I  ask 
for  the  number  of  your  house  they  tell  me  it  is  the  rule 
that  they  must  not  tell.  Is  it,  Peter,  that  so  many  ladies 
call  you  up?  The  next  time  I  am  more  smart.  I  say 
that  your  father  is  very  sick  and  that  I  am  the  nurse 
and  must  know  where  you  are.  But  I  should  have 
known.  It  is  twenty  years  and  the  flat  it  is  the  same. 
You  are  like  that  Peter.  You  do  not  change.  I 
thought  not  to  see  you  and  Pat  until  next  year  in 
Paris  but  from  Buenos  Aires  I  decided  suddenly  I  will 
go  to  New  York.  Here  I  am.  My  hotel  it  is  the  Ritz. 
You  and  Pat  you  will  come  tonight  at  eight  and  have 
supper  with  me — Maria." 

"I  didn't  want  to  go  to  Westport  much  anyway," 
said  Pat. 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          287 

He  was  more  nervous  than  Peter  when  they  came 
to  the  door  of  Maria's  suite.  She  kissed  Peter  but 
Pat  only  held  out  his  hand.  Maria  laughed.  "He 
does  not  know  me.  I  know  him.  He  is  like  the 
picture." 

Pat  was  almost  silent  during  supper.  He  spoke 
up  only  once.  Maria  was  ordering.  "We  will  have 
some  vegetable,"  she  said.  "What  is  the  name?  I 
do  not  know  the  English.  Lcs  cpinards" 

"That's  spinach,"  said  Peter  and  added  slyly. 
"Pat  doesn't  like  spinach.  He  won't  want  that." 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Pat  promptly. 

Peter  smiled  but  he  had  the  joke  all  to  himself. 
Pat  had  forgotten. 

After  dinner  they  talked  sparsely  with  Peter  doing 
most  of  the  work.  Suddenly  Maria  said,  "It  is 
necessary  that  somebody  he  ask  me." 

Peter  was  puzzled,  but  Pat  understood.  "I've 
waited  for  five  years  to  hear  you  sing.  Won't  you  ?" 

"It  is  nice,  but  it  is  the  twenty  years  I  have  waited. 
First  you  must  sing." 

"I  can't." 

"Maybe.  It  must  be  that  sometimes  you  have 
sung." 

"Oh,  just  with  other  people.    Swipes  you  know." 


288         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

"I  do  not  know  what  it  is  but  you  sing  and  the 
swipes  I  will  do." 

"Just  anything.    That's  all  I  can  sing — anything.'* 

Maria  moved  over  to  the  piano.  "The  accompani 
ment  it  is  not  necessary  but  it  I  can  do  if  what  you 
sing  it  is  not  too  hard." 

"It's  just  something  you  sing  around  with  a 
crowd." 

"Come  nearer." 

Pat  moved  over  beside  the  piano. 

"Allons!" 

Maria  looked  up  at  him  and  whispered,  "You  can. 
I  know." 

There  was  no  banter  in  it.  Pat  began  a  little 
husky  at  first  but  then  louder  and  clearer. 

"Down  by  the  stream  where  I  first  met  Rebecca 
Down  by  the  stream  where  the  sun  loves  to  shine. 
Sweet  were  the  garlands  I  wound  for  Rebecca. 
Bright  eyes  gave  answer,  she  said  she'd  be  mine. 
One,  two,  three,  four, 
Sometimes  I  wish  there  were  more. 
Ein,  zwei,  drei,  vier, 
I  love  the  one  that's  near. 
Ut  ne  sam  si, 

So  says  the  heathen  Chinee. 
Fair  girls  bereft 


The  Boy  Grew  Older          289 

There  will  get  left, 
One,  two,  and  three." 

Maria  looked  up  and  smiled.  Peter  waited  in  an 
agony.  He  remembered  that  he  had  not  heard  Pat 
sing  since  he  was  a  small  child.  He  waited 
for  somebody  to  speak.  He  did  not  know  whether 
or  not  it  was  good.  Somebody  would  have  to  tell 
him  if  this  was  the  singing  voice  for  which  Maria 
had  hoped. 

She  continued  to  look  at  Pat  and  smile  and  he 
smiled  back  now  more  boldly. 

Peter  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer.  "Tell  me  ... 
Maria.  Can  he  sing?" 

Getting  up  from  the  piano  she  put  a  hand  on  Pat's 
shoulder. 

"It  is  the  fine  voice  that  I  know.  I  think  it  will 
be  the  greatest  voice  in  all  the  world." 

Peter  took  out  his  handkerchief  and  mopped  his 
forehead.  Maria  turned  to  him.  "The  time  it  is  not 
up.  I  have  come  too  soon.  There  is  still  the  year. 
But  you  must  not.  We  cannot  wait." 

"Ask  him.    Tell  him,"  said  Peter  hoarsely. 
"Pat,"  she  said,  "if  you  will  come  with  me  to 
Paris  you  tan  be  the  great  singer.    It  will  not  be  to- 


290         The  Boy  Grew  Older 

morrow.  It  will  be  two  years.  Maybe  three  years. 
You  must  work.  You  must  do  what  I  say." 

"When?"  asked  Pat  trembling. 

"In  the  week." 

Peter  said  nothing,  but  he  looked  at  Pat.  The 
boy  continued  to  stare  at  Maria. 

"Pat,"  he  said. 

His  son  turned  to  him. 

"I  want  to,  Peter.    I  want  to." 

Peter  mopped  his  forehead  again. 

"He  wants  to,  Maria,"  he  said.  "I  give  up  my 
year."  Peter  paused.  "I  give  up  all  my  years,"  he 
added  in  a  low  voice. 

"But  you  must  not  give  up  the  years,"  said 
Maria.  "We  will  go  to  Paris,  all  three.  It  will  be 
more  and  more.  You  must  watch  and  listen.  He 
is  your  son  Peter." 

But  Peter  shook  his  head.  "No,"  he  answered, 
"it  wouldn't  mean  anything  to  me.  I  wouldn't 
know.  I  don't  care  anything  about  tunes." 

Maria  ran  her  hands  over  the  keys  playing  softly 
"The  Invitation  to  the  Waltz."  She  watched  Peter 
but  he  gave  no  sign  of  recognition.  He  was  fum 
bling  in  his  pocket  for  something.  At  last  he  found 
it  and  pulled  out  a  letter. 


The  Boy  Grew  Older         291 

"You  see  it  wouldn't  be  possible  for  me  to  go 
anyway,"  he  said.  "This  morning  I  got  this  letter 
from  Rufus  Twice.  He's  the  Supervising  Editor  of 
the  Bulletin.  He  writes  and  says,  Tm  sorry  about 
your  vacation,  but  it  is  imperative  that  you  give  up 
the  last  week  of  it.  The  syndicate's  doing  great 
work  on  your  Hit  And  Run  column.  Booth  has 
just  come  back  from  the  West  and  he's  sold  you  to 
eighteen  more  papers.  When  you  got  back  from 
the  war  I  promised  you  two  hundred.  This  addition 
brings  it  up  to  two  hundred  and  ten.  You  see  I've 
made  good  for  you.  But  Booth  says  they  want  the 
stuff  right  off.  Another  week  might  mean  our 
losing  some  of  them.' ' 

Peter  folded  up  the  letter  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 
"There's  no  chance  anyway.  It's  the  tightest  race 
they've  had  in  the  American  League  for  years  and 
pretty  soon  the  World  Series'll  be  on  and  right  after 
that  football  starts.  With  all  that  going  on  there 
ought  to  be  something  in  the  paper  by  Peter 
Neale." 


THE  END 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


4   193? 


JAt 


1940 


AUG    28  1! 


5Apr'57PW 
lEC'D  LD 


LD  21-100m-8,'34 


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